Introduction: Encountering the Film

This book began with a single film.

I cannot recall the exact date anymore. Sunk into the darkness of a movie theater, I watched the images drifting across the screen. The film was titled "Tochūkasō" (冬虫夏草; literally, "winter bug, summer herb" or Cordyceps). Insect dies in winter; grass becomes in summer. Like its name, a story revolving around the boundary between life and death appeared and vanished before my eyes in rapid succession, like a revolving lantern.

After the screening, as I stepped out of the theater and accustomed my eyes to the city lights, a strange sensation took hold of me. Rather than tracing the narrative plot, fragments of the film continually resurfaced, overlapping and intertwining. It was akin to that feeling of one's memories flashing before them at the threshold of death. The film itself possessed a structure resembling a revolving lantern.

It was a film that depicted the boundary between life and death through the physical body and imagery. Sensation preceded narrative. The sound of water dripping, a cicada in the snow, transparent wings—these elements lingered in my body long after the film ended. And within me, a different set of inquiries arose. What is death? What is memory? What remains after the body disappears? Is the body the source of value, or is it a medium of meaning?

This book is records of thought evoked by that film. It is not film criticism. Nor is it a systematic philosophical treatise. It is merely an attempt to put into words what the images watched in that darkness awakened inside me—a trace of that evocation.

Please, turn the pages quietly.

The act of watching a film is often described as passive consumption. We sit before a screen and receive the flowing images. Yet, how we receive them is not simple. The imagery triggers something within us—memories, emotions, thoughts. After the film ends, we are slightly different from who we were before. Within that "slightly different" space lies the true efficacy of cinema.

What this book addresses is one form of that efficacy. A film dealing with death awakens thoughts on mortality within the viewer. To put those awakened thoughts into words—that is the endeavor of this book.

Part 1: With Film as a Clue

Chapter 1: On the Film "Tochūkasō"

1.1 Overview of the Work

"Tochūkasō" (English title: Cordyceps Sobolifera) is an experimental film shot on 16mm, directed by Fumie Kamioka. Produced in the 1990s as a personal film, it is known as an important work from the golden age of Japanese experimental cinema, which saw the rise of directors like Naomi Kawase. Since its creation, it has been screened at international festivals such as the Munich International Film Festival, and in recent years, it has undergone reevaluation at venues like the Royal Belgian Film Archive (Cinematek) in their December 2025 program "Diary Films, Transgressive Cinema." Held in collections like the Yokohama Museum of Art, it is treated as a precious cinematic asset.

This film is not a narrative. While conventional films progress through "story -> character -> emotion," this work engages the audience in the order of "body -> sensation -> image -> meaning." The audience does not "understand" it; they are made to react physically. It is a free, unconstrained expression in the lineage of 1960s body art, surrealist cinema, and Japanese personal film.

1.2 Meaning of the Title and Themes

Cordyceps is a fungus that parasitizes insects, taking over their bodies. In the film, this is expressed as the erosion of the body, the blurring of the ego, and the collapse of the boundary between human and nature. The theme is the dissolution of identity. Physicality, eros, and the grotesque merge as the sensation of parasitism, transformation, and blurred physical boundaries are rendered through the texture of 16mm film—its grain, flickering light, and unstable colors. This texture enhances the sense of decay, mutation, and organic life.

Within the framework of "diary films," the method of exposing personal landscapes and the body has been praised as a universal expression by international curators and researchers. The film refuses explanation, leaving behind only sensation. Because of this quality, some in the younger generation perceive it as a "film of the future."

1.3 Two Memorable Images

For those who have watched this film, certain images leave a particularly lasting impression.

The Scene and Sound of Dripping Water

This scene is interpreted in many critiques as the "condensation of time." The sound of the dripping water can be heard as a heartbeat, dripping bodily fluids, or the ticking of time. It represents the time of life. While the space is almost entirely still, the scene is crafted so that only time appears to fall.

The Cicada and Transparent Wings in the Snow

Cicadas are normally creatures of summer. Yet in this film, one is set in the snow. The season is broken. Life and death overlap. Time is out of sync. Cicadas sleep underground for years only to live on the surface for a brief moment. This cut can be read as a visualization of a brief life. The transparent wings symbolize the fragility of life, shells, and boundaries.

Aligning these two images reveals an identical structure. In the water droplet, time falls. In the cicada, life ends. This film depicts the time of life. Cordyceps exists where the boundary between life and death is blurred.

1.4 Interrogating the Viewer—A Film that Parasitizes the Body

While the film containing grotesque elements, it remains strangely quiet. After watching, there is a sensation of "not knowing what was seen, yet it lingers in the body." It is not a film to be understood, but a film that parasitizes the body of the viewer.

Some viewers experience a physical reaction. This relates to the gut-brain axis, where emotions and sensory stimuli in the brain directly connect to reactions in the gut. Experimental films bypass the meaning-route (rational understanding of a story) and instead utilize the physical-route (where sound, texture, and image stimulate the autonomic nervous system). The sound of dripping water, the quiet space, the transparent wings of the cicada—all of these are elements that stimulate the autonomic nervous system.

Some feel it is "too beautiful." A worldview where life and death exist within the same beauty. It is close to Karesansui (dry landscape gardens), Noh, and wabi-sabi. It is the sensation that things which vanish are the most beautiful.

This book is one attempt to confront that inquiry. Starting from the film, it records reflections on death, memory, the body, and their significance in the AI era as a trace of contemplations.

1.6 Characteristics of Cinematic Language—A Poem of Images

Fumie Kamioka’s cinema is composed not of narrative, but of visual poems. There is no dialogue, no explanation. The grain of the 16mm film, the flickering light, and the instability of the colors carry meaning directly. The viewer reads their own meaning from the images. In the process of this reading, the viewer’s body reacts. Nothing is revealed simply by watching passively. The cinematic experience only truly occurs when the viewer mobilizes their own bodily sensations to "see" the images.

Chapter 2: The Metaphor of Cordyceps

2.1 Dies in Winter, Becomes Grass in Summer

The ecology of the organism known as Cordyceps can be read directly as a metaphor for the boundary between life and death. An insect—often the larva of a moth or butterfly—is parasitized by mycelium. During the winter, as the fungus grows inside the host, the insect eventually dies. However, the dead insect's body becomes the medium for the fungus. In summer, a slender, club-like fruiting body extends from the insect's head above the ground. From a distance, it appears as though grass has grown from the body of the insect.

The insect dies in winter; the grass grows in summer. One life transforms into another form. Death is not the end. Death is a transition point of transformation. What does this image tell us?

First, it speaks to the continuity of life and death. The "death" of the insect and the "life" of the grass are not separate events. The death of the insect is the condition for the life of the grass. Death enables new life. This continuity differs from our conventional image of death, where we tend to perceive it as an "end." The metaphor of Cordyceps, however, presents death as a "transformation."

Second is the fate of the body. After death, the insect's body is decomposed and absorbed by the fungus. The body as an insect no longer exists. Yet, the physical matter of that body is carried over into the grass. The body does not "vanish"; it "changes." What lies beyond that transformation?

2.2 How "Death" is Rendered in the Film

In the film "Tochūkasō," death appears not as a narrative event, but as imagery. The erosion of the body. The blurring of the ego. A cicada in the snow—a creature that normally sings in summer, leaving only the traces of life in the winter cold. Transparent wings. These do not "explain" death; they engrave death into the body as a sensation.

Crucially, the film does not "explain" death. What is the meaning of death? To this inquiry, the film offers no clear answer. Instead, it fragmentarily presents images of death—decay, mutation, the collapse of boundaries. The viewer uses these as clues to construct their own understanding. Some find it grotesque; others find it too beautiful. This divergence exposes the state of the viewer's own body.

That ambiguity is the strength of the film. Death cannot be fully explained. Death always leaves a remainder. And that remainder parasitizes the body of the viewer.

2.3 Imagery of Parasitism and Transformation

Cordyceps is established through the relationship of parasitism. The fungus parasitizes the insect. The insect is "consumed" by the fungus. Yet, as a result of that consumption, a new form—the grass—is born. Parasitism is not mere exploitation; it is a mechanism of transformation.

The film extends this image of parasitism to the relationship between the viewer and the cinema. The film parasitizes the viewer's body. It does not seek understanding; it lingers in the body. The sound of dripping water, the wings of the cicada, the close-ups of the body—these live on within the viewer long after the screening. The viewer is transformed by the film.

This image illuminates our relationship with life and death from a different angle. We are "parasitized" by something. By time. By memory. By AI and algorithms. Our bodies are "consumed" and transformed by them. Death is one extreme of that transformation.

2.4 Death and Transformation in Eastern Traditions

Cordyceps has long been prized in traditional Chinese medicine. In herbal medicine, it is used as a remedy for nourishment, strengthening, and longevity. The extent to which these benefits are scientifically proven is a separate discussion. What is important here is that Cordyceps has been treated as a symbol of death and transformation.

In Eastern thought—Buddhism and Daoism—there is a perspective that views death not as an "end" but as a "transition." The metaphor of Cordyceps may be where this philosophy integrates with natural observation. The death of the insect makes way for the life of the grass. The end of one form is the beginning of another.

Those who find this film "too beautiful" are experiencing a sensibility akin to Karesansui, Noh, and wabi-sabi. That which vanishes is the most beautiful. Life and death exist within the same beauty. This sensibility is deeply rooted in Japanese aesthetics.

Chapter 3: The Mechanics of the Revolving Lantern

3.1 The Flow of Memory at the Threshold of Death

The "revolving lantern" (shōmagi) originally refers to a rotating lantern mechanism that casts shadows of horses or figures, making them appear to run. By extension, it describes the sensation of one's life memories rushing back in succession at the moment of death. Near-death experiences and accounts from survivors of life-threatening events often speak of this revolving-lantern-like flow of memory.

Its defining characteristic is the disregard for chronology. Childhood memories and yesterday's occurrences appear before one's eyes with the same weight and clarity. Causality and temporal sequence cease to matter. Memory simply flows.

Why does this happen at the threshold of death? Neuroscience explains that due to oxygen deprivation or changes in neurotransmitters, memory retrieval is liberated from normal constraints. Philosophy and literature describe death as the instant where the entirety of life is compressed into a single moment. Which is "correct" is not the question here. What matters is that the revolving lantern is deeply engraved in our image of death.

We imagine death in connection with this revolving lantern. At our final moment, the memories of our life will flow all at once. This imagination shapes our attitude toward death.

3.2 Film Editing, the Passage of Time, and the Overlap of Recalled Memories

The film "Tochūkasō" incorporates the mechanics of this revolving lantern into its visual structure. Rather than a linear narrative progression, past and present appear fragmentarily and alternately. A scene suddenly cuts to a memory from a different point in time. The viewer loses track of the flow of time, simply surrendering their body to the images appearing before them.

The effect of this editing is twofold. First, it allows the viewer to experience the memories of the characters. What they are remembering, the flow of their interiority, is shared through the visuals. Second, it awakens the viewer's own memories. Fragments of the film connect with the viewer's past, giving rise to new associations. The act of watching the film itself becomes a revolving-lantern-like experience.

While watching the film, memories I had forgotten suddenly resurfaced. The landscapes in the film overlapped with landscapes from my own past. Whether this was an intended effect of the film or a mere coincidence, I do not know. Yet, this overlap became one of the motivations for writing this book.

3.3 The Sensation of the Past Rushing Back

The sensation of the revolving lantern is not confined to the movie theater. We experience similar moments in our daily lives. A certain scent, a particular sound, or a specific sight suddenly calls forth forgotten memories. The madeleine episode in Proust’s *In Search of Lost Time* is a classic example. The taste of the madeleine dipped in tea causes the protagonist’s childhood memories to rush back all at once.

In that instant, time loses its linear progress. The past invades the present. We live in two points of time—the past and the present—simultaneously. This layering is the essence of the revolving lantern.

After watching the film "Tochūkasō," I became more conscious of this layering. The self here now, and the self of the past. The other here now, and the other who is no longer of this world. They appear overlapping on a single plane. Reflections on death cannot escape this layering.

3.4 Editing as Technique, Memory as Phenomenon

Film editing is a technique. It joins cut to cut, compressing, expanding, and bending time. This technique shapes the viewer's experience. Editing that mimics a revolving lantern translates the phenomenon of memory into the structure of moving images.

Our memories are edited. To be precise, memory is reconstructed each time it is recalled. In this process of reconstruction, memory undergoes transformation. Important elements are emphasized; trivial details are discarded. Chronological order may be swapped. Our memory is not an objective record, but a subjective narrative.

Film editing intentionally reproduces this subjectivity, expressing the flow of a character's memory as a flow of images. The viewer surrenders to this flow, overlapping it with the movement of their own memory. The cinematic experience is established within this overlap.

3.5 Endless Recollection

Does the revolving lantern ever end? When does the flow of memory at the threshold of death stop? There is no answer to this inquiry. Those who have experienced death cannot speak. We can only speculate.

However, recollection while we are alive does not end. We repeatedly recall the past, ruminating on the same memories over and over. With each rumination, the memory is slightly transformed. Within a new context, the memory acquires new meaning.

Since watching the film "Tochūkasō," I have ruminated on its memory countless times. At times, a scene rises as a metaphor for death. At other times, it appears as the fragility of memory. The same film generates different meanings in different contexts. This generation is what drives the writing of this book.

Part 2: On Death

Chapter 4: Whose Death, Which Death

4.1 Imagery of Death Rendered in the Film

In the film "Tochūkasō," no "deceased person" appears as a narrative element. Yet, images of death saturate every frame. The erosion of the body. An insect taken over by a parasite. A cicada in the snow—a creature of summer leaving only the traces of life in winter. Transparent wings. Decay, mutation, the collapse of boundaries. These engrave death not as an "event," but as a "sensation" in the body of the viewer.

What the film asks of us is not the "kind" of death, but the "meaning" of death. When the body is taken over by something else, is that "I" still "I"? When boundaries blur, where does the distinction between life and death lie?

The film does not "explain" death. The sound of dripping water, the wings of the cicada, the close-ups of the body—these refuse meaning, leaving only sensation. The viewer constructs their own understanding from these fragments. Some feel fear; others feel beauty. This divergence exposes the state of the viewer's own body.

This "untoldness" is vital. Death cannot be fully explained. Death always leaves a remainder. And that remainder parasitizes the body of the viewer.

4.2 Witnessing the Death of Another, Imagining One's Own Death

We can "witness" the death of another. Death in films. Death in the news. The death of someone close to us. These confront us with the reality of death. Death is not an abstract concept; it occurs as a concrete event.

However, witnessing one's own death is theoretically impossible. At the moment of one's own death, one is no longer the subject that "witnesses." One becomes the object witnessed—a corpse. This asymmetry is one of the profound philosophical dilemmas of death. Heidegger discussed death as "one's ownmost possibility." No one can die in our stead. Yet, we cannot directly experience that death.

The act of watching a film temporarily destabilizes this asymmetry. The film's images of death—the erosion of the body, the cicada in the snow, transparent wings—show us death. We twin-experience the imagery of death through sensation. This experience provides clues for imagining our own death. What happens when we die? Will the revolving lantern flow? This imagination shapes our attitude toward living.

4.3 Loss and the Perspective of Those Left Behind

In *Mourning and Melancholia*, Freud discussed the experience of loss. When we lose a loved one, we go through a process of mourning. This process varies by individual, but what remains constant is that loss alters the structure of our world. A hole opens where the deceased once was. How do we fill that hole? Or do we live without filling it? This is the task of those left behind.

Death is not an event solely for the deceased. It is also an event for those left behind. Loss—this word expresses the experience of survivors. The dead do not return. Their absence opens a void in the world of the living.

The reactions of those who watch this film are diverse. Some experience a physical reaction. Some find it too beautiful. Others feel fear. Some feel that though they do not understand what they saw, it remains in their body. What is shared is that the film's images continue to reside within the viewer's physical self.

Those left behind live carrying the memory of the dead. This memory is sometimes a consolation, sometimes a burden. The deceased continues to exist in some form within memory. Yet, this existence depends on the memory of the living. Once there is no one left to remember, the "existence" of the deceased also vanishes. This transience places a heavy weight on the responsibility of those left behind—the responsibility to keep remembering.

Chapter 5: "Death" in the AI Era—From the Viewpoint of Physicality

5.1 The Connection Between Body and Death—Why the "Extinction of the Body" is Death

The philosophy of the body developed from twentieth-century phenomenology. Centered on Merleau-Ponty, it reimagines the body not as a mere "object" but as the "subject through which we experience the world." We do not have a "mind" in our head operating the body; rather, the body itself contacts the world and generates meaning. Let us consider death from this perspective.

What is death? The most intuitive answer is this: death is when the functions of the body cease and the body decays. The heart stops, breathing stops, brain activity ceases. At that moment, we say someone has "died."

Why is the extinction of the body considered death? It is because we experience ourselves primarily as a body. I contact the world through this body—touching, seeing, hearing, tasting. When this body no longer responds, "I" am not here. The extinction of the body is the extinction of contact with the world, and is therefore experienced as the extinction of existence.

The philosophy of the body has long debated this intuition with greater refinement. Merleau-Ponty approached the body as the "lived body." The body is not a mere object; it is the experiencing subject itself. When that body dies, the experiencing subject vanishes. Death is the death of the body—nothing more, nothing less.

5.2 Digital Survival—"Extension of Life" as AI, Avatars, and Data

However, the AI era destabilizes this intuition. The possibility that something "remains" after the body has vanished is becoming a reality.

Digital survival. This takes several forms. First, the data left behind by the deceased during their lifetime, such as social media, emails, photos, and videos. These remain on servers as "traces" of the deceased. Second, AI that mimics the voice or appearance of the deceased. Using voice synthesis and deepfake technologies, the "voice" and "form" of the deceased are reproduced. Third, chat bots that have learned the thoughts and preferences of the deceased. By training them on past conversation data, one can "converse" with the deceased.

These technologies are said to "prolong the life" of the deceased. The physical body has vanished, but as data, or as AI, the deceased "continues to exist." Some argue that the experience of hearing the voice of the deceased or "conversing" with them brings comfort to those left behind.

Yet, is this truly the "extension of life"? We must interrogate this from the perspective of the philosophy of the body.

5.3 Can a Bodiless Existence Be Said to Be "Alive"?

The philosophy of the body teaches that the experiencing subject is inseparable from the body. I experience the world through this body—feeling pain, experiencing joy, and touching others. When the subject of that experience vanishes with the extinction of the body, what is left?

Data does not experience. AI does not experience. They are "traces" and "imitations" of the deceased. But traces and imitations are not experiencing subjects. When we "converse" with an AI that reproduces the voice of the deceased, what we are contacting is an algorithm, not the deceased themselves.

Then, what of the idea that the "soul" or "consciousness" of the deceased exists independently of the body and can transition to a digital space? This concept separates consciousness from the body—predicting that while the body perishes, consciousness remains. From the standpoint of body philosophy, however, consciousness cannot be severed from the body. Consciousness is shaped within bodily experience. Without the body, that consciousness can no longer be called the "same" consciousness.

Thus, digital survival is not the "extension of life," but the "preservation of traces." With the extinction of the body, the deceased vanishes as an experiencing subject. What remains are the traces they left behind, and the imitations based on those traces. This may offer consolation, but it does not mean the deceased is "alive."

5.4 Physical Finitude and Redefining the Meaning of Death

Digital survival in the AI era forces us to redefine the meaning of death. Historically, death was equated with the extinction of the physical body. When the body disappeared, the person disappeared. In an age where digital traces persist, this equation falters.

The data of the deceased remains on servers. AI mimicking the voice of the deceased "speaks" at the request of the bereaved. At that moment, can we say we have "lost" the deceased? Or should we say the deceased "exists" in a different form?

From the perspective of body philosophy, the conclusion I draw is this: the experiencing subject of the deceased vanished with the extinction of the body. Therefore, the deceased is not "alive." However, their traces remain. These traces hold meaning within the experience of those left behind. When the bereaved "converse" with an AI mimicking the deceased, they are not experiencing a reunion with the deceased; they are contacting the traces of the deceased. Whether this contact brings comfort depends on the individual. However, it is not an extension of the deceased's "life."

The meaning of death does not change. Death is the extinction of the body, and the extinction of the experiencing subject. What has changed is the "aftermath" of death. Previously, the deceased left behind nothing but memories and physical belongings. Today, they also remain as data and AI. This manner of remaining will change our attitude toward death.

5.5 The Metaphor of Cordyceps—Body Transforming / Beyond the Body

Let us return to the metaphor of Cordyceps. The insect dies, and the grass grows. The insect's body is decomposed by the fungus, becoming part of the grass. The body does not "vanish," but "transforms."

Digital survival might be read as one form of this transformation. The physical body vanishes. Yet, the traces left by the body—words, images, audio, records of behavior—take on a new form within digital space. Like the grass of Cordyceps growing from the insect's body, it is something that "grows" from the traces of the deceased.

However, there is a crucial difference. The grass of Cordyceps directly inherits the physical matter of the insect's body. The fungus decomposes the insect's body, absorbing its physical matter as nutrients to grow the grass. There is a continuity of physical matter. On the other hand, digital traces do not inherit the physical matter of the body. Traces are "products" of the body, not "transformations" of it. The body leaves traces and vanishes. Traces cannot substitute for the physical body.

Therefore, the metaphor of Cordyceps cannot be applied directly to digital survival. However, what the metaphor suggests is a perspective that views death not as an "end" but as a "transformation." This perspective does not contradict body philosophy. The physical body vanishes, but the influence the body exerted on the world—traces, memories, effects on others—remains. In the AI era, this remaining takes on a new form. How we receive this new form is the physical inquiry concerning death in the AI era.

Chapter 6: That Which Cannot Be Spoken

6.1 The Limits of Putting Death and Memory into Words

To speak of death. To speak of memory. This book is a continuous attempt to do so. Yet, there are limits to what can be spoken.

At the end of his *Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus*, Wittgenstein wrote: "Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent." He argued that ethics, aesthetics, and the mystical lie outside the limits of language. Attempting to speak of them pushes language beyond its capacity.

Death is one of those things about which we cannot speak. It is possible to talk about death; we have spoken of death philosophically, literarily, and in everyday language. However, the "essence" of death—what death is, what it means to experience death—cannot be fully exhausted by words. Those who have experienced death cannot speak. Those who have not must speak through speculation. This asymmetry always renders discourse on death incomplete.

Memory operates similarly. When we speak of memory, we are "reconstructing" it. Spoken memory is not the original experience itself; the act of speaking transforms the memory. Even so, we have no choice but to speak. If we do not speak, memory remains locked within the interiority of the individual, eventually vanishing.

6.2 Cinema Demonstrates the Sensation Before Language

The film "Tochūkasō" rejects words. There is no dialogue, no explanation. The sound of dripping water, the texture of the body, and the grain of the 16mm film carry the meaning. This style is a shared characteristic of Fumie Kamioka's experimental films and 1990s Japanese personal cinema.

Why exercise such restraint with words? In all likelihood, because the subjects this story treats—death, loss, the interiority of people living in remote lands—escape when put into words. Words fix things in place. Yet, by fixing them, they narrow them. The experience of death and loss cannot be fully fixed. Therefore, the film uses visuals and silence instead of words.

Visuals appeal to sensations that exist prior to language. Light, color, sound, physical movement—these reach us before they are conceptualized. The experience of watching a film shares this layer "before language." This sharing communicates something about death and loss that words cannot fully convey.

6.3 The Meaning of Silence and Margin

Silence does not mean speaking nothing. Silence points to that which cannot be spoken. Margin does not mean nothing is there. Margin opens a space that words cannot fill.

This book also attempts to speak of death and memory through words. Yet, a part that cannot be fully spoken always remains. I receive that remainder as silence and margins. I hope readers will weave their own thoughts within these margins. What this book offers are clues for thought, not answers.

6.4 Between the Body and Words

When we speak of death and memory, we use words. Yet, the experience of death and memory is rooted in a physical layer prior to language—pain, the sense of loss, nostalgia. When put into words, something escapes. Language fixes experience to some extent, but in doing so, it narrows it.

Body philosophy points to this narrowness. Our experience does not occur apart from the body. Physical sensations—touch, scent, taste, the internal sensations of the body—are difficult to verbalize. Yet, they form the foundation of our experience. The experience of death also exists upon this physical foundation.

Cinema appeals directly to the layer before language. Visuals, sounds, and physical movements reach us before conceptualization. Thus, cinema can convey something of death and loss that words cannot. This book attempts to approach that "something" using words. It will not reach it completely. Yet, the attempt to approach it holds meaning.

Part 3: Memory and Recollection

Chapter 7: Memories Awakened by Film

7.1 Personal Memories Rising from a Scene in the Film

While watching a film, or after it ends, memories we had forgotten may suddenly resurface. A landscape in the film overlaps with a landscape from our past. A character's gesture overlaps with the gesture of someone we know. This overlap awakens dormant memories.

I experienced this. In a scene from the film "Tochūkasō," a figure walks through a remote village. The sky is vast, and the ground is dry. That sight linked with another landscape within me. I cannot say for certain when or where it was. Yet, that dry air, that vast sky, that walking back—they existed somewhere in my past.

That memory had not been conscious prior to the film. The film awakened it. The act of watching a film is not merely the consumption of a story. Cinema is also a device that excavates the viewer's memory.

Why does a scene in a film awaken forgotten memories? Psychology explains this through the concept of cue-dependent memory. Memories are not recalled without a cue. A certain cue—a scent, a sound, an image—prompts memory retrieval. A scene in a film functions as such a cue.

A landscape in the film shares some similarity with a landscape of the past—tonality, composition, atmosphere. This similarity triggers the brain to search for past memories. The retrieved memory rises to consciousness, and we feel, "Ah, I remember that time."

This mechanism relates to the revolving lantern. In the revolving lantern, memories resurface one after another, ignoring chronological order. The cues are not conscious. In the unconscious, one memory calls forth another, initiating a chain reaction. Watching a film temporarily activates this chain because the film provides a massive volume of cues.

7.3 The Mixing of Fiction and One's Own Past

However, the resurfaced memory is not necessarily "accurate." Memory is reconstructed each time it is recalled, transforming in the process. At times, the film's images and one's own memories mix. The boundary between what belonged to the film and what belonged to one's own memory can become blurred.

This mixing is not necessarily a problem. Rather, it is the richness of the cinematic experience. The film intersects with the viewer's memory, generating new associations. These associations shape the "meaning" of the film for the viewer. Even when watching the same film, the memories awakened differ by individual. Consequently, the "meaning" of the film is unique to each person.

This is why this book is subtitled "thoughts evoked by film." This is not an analysis of the film itself, but of what the film awakened within me—a record of the trace of that evocation.

Chapter 8: The Twist of Time

8.1 Cinematic Time and the Recalled Time of the Past

Cinema possesses two temporalities. First, the narrative time within the film, which may span years. Second, the physical time of watching the film—usually around two hours. Within those two hours, we experience years of story. This compression is the singularity of cinematic time.

Furthermore, in the film "Tochūkasō," the narrative time itself is non-linear. Past and present appear alternately in fragments. It is difficult for the viewer to follow a chronology; they lose track of when and where they are. This disorientation is intentional, designed to let the viewer experience the revolving-lantern-like flow of time.

The recalled time of the past is similarly non-linear. When we recall the past, chronological order is often ignored. A memory from ten years ago may resurface with greater clarity than an event from yesterday. The time of memory operates on a logic different from physical time.

The experience of watching a film is the moment where these two temporalities—cinematic time and memory time—overlap. A past scene in the film awakens a past memory of the viewer. At that moment, three points of time—the film's past, the viewer's past, and the here and now—overlap on a single plane. Time twists.

8.2 Revolving-Lantern-Like Non-Linear Sensation of Time

The time of the revolving lantern is non-linear. Memories of childhood and memories of yesterday appear before one's eyes with the same weight and clarity. Causality and sequence irrelevant. Memory simply flows.

This non-linearity differs from our daily experience of time. In daily life, we experience time linearly—from past to present, from present to future. Yet, when we immerse ourselves in memory, or imagine the revolving lantern at death, our sensation of time transforms. The past invades the present. Multiple points of time exist here simultaneously.

The film "Tochūkasō" incorporates this sensation of time into its visual structure. The viewer expects a linear narrative progression, but the film betrays this expectation. The past suddenly interrupts the present. The viewer loses track of the flow of time, simply surrendering their body to the images on the screen. This surrender is the revolving-lantern experience.

8.3 Shuttling Between "Now" and "Then"

After watching the film, I often found myself shuttling between "now" and "then." The self here now. The self before watching the film. The self remembering a scene from the film. That recollection, in turn, calling forth memories of my past self. Now and then—this shuttling becomes the movement of thought.

Bergson discussed time as "duration" (durée). Time is not a spatialized linear line. The past permeates the present. The present carries the past. This permeation and carrying are the essence of our experience of time. Watching a film makes this permeation conscious. The film's past scenes appear here now. The viewer's past memories appear here now. The duration of time becomes experienceable.

This shuttling continues in the process of writing this book. As I write these words, they awaken memories of the film. The memories of the film awaken memories of my past. My past memories generate new words. This circulation shapes the content of this book.

The shuttling between "now" and "then" does not end. We always live the present carrying the past. This carrying is what tasks us with reflections on mortality.

Part 4: The Touch of Life

Chapter 9: Transience and Duration

9.1 The Transience of Cordyceps and That Which Persists

Cordyceps is transient. The insect dies, and the grass grows in summer. Yet, the life of the grass is not long either; eventually, it also withers. From insect to grass, from grass to soil—everything flows.

This transience applies to our lives as well. We will die eventually. Our bodies will decay. A time will come when our memories are no longer carried by anyone. How do we accept this transience?

Yet, the metaphor of Cordyceps does not speak only of transience. Though the insect dies, the grass grows. Though the grass withers, the fungus remains in the soil, waiting for the next host. Something continues. This is not complete extinction; it is transformation, a continuation.

Our lives are similar. The physical body vanishes, but the influence we exerted on the world—our impact on others, the words we left, the works we created—remains for a time. Though that remaining is transient, something nevertheless continues.

9.2 The View of Life Predicated on Death

Death is a future event. Yet, death shapes our life now. When we know we have limited time, this knowledge changes our choices—what we prioritize, whom we spend time with, what we attempt to leave behind.

Heidegger spoke of death as "one's ownmost possibility." No one can die for us. When we accept this death as our own, our life recovers its "authenticity." We awaken from daily inertia to confront what is truly important. A life predicated on death is such a life.

After watching the film "Tochūkasō," I became more conscious of this "life predicated on death." What to choose within limited time—this inquiry is felt with greater urgency.

9.3 Living Within Finitude

We are finite beings. Time is limited. The body will eventually cease to move. We cannot escape this finitude.

Yet, finitude is not a mere constraint. Finitude gives meaning to our choices. If we had infinite time, whatever we chose could eventually be undone. But time is limited; therefore, the choice we make now carries weight. Finitude introduces tension into life.

The insect of Cordyceps lives a finite life, parasitized by the fungus and soon dying. Its life is short, yet its death enables the life of the grass. Finite life connects to another life. Within this connection, finitude ceases to be a mere end.

Chapter 10: Leaving Behind, Passing On

10.1 What Remains After Death

What do we leave behind after we die? Belongings. Photographs. Words. Memories. For those left behind, these become the points of contact with the deceased.

However, what remains will eventually vanish. Belongings are eventually disposed of. Photographs fade. Memories disappear when there is no one left to remember. All traces eventually vanish. We have no choice but to accept this transience.

Even so, we attempt to leave something. We write. We photograph. We speak. This act is a response to death. Because complete extinction is difficult to accept, we leave something behind. This act temporarily fixes the meaning of life.

10.2 Memory, Record, Narrative

Leaving something behind takes several forms: Memory—leaving it in the minds of others; Record—leaving it as text, image, or sound; Narrative—weaving memory and records into a meaningful shape.

Memory is the most transient; when the person remembering dies, the memory vanishes. Records endure longer, but they hold no meaning if there is no one to read them. Narrative is the form through which memory and records are passed to the next generation. By being spoken of as a narrative, the deceased continues a kind of "life."

This book is also a narrative. It puts into words and records thoughts evoked by the film. Should this record reach someone and intersect with their memory, this thought may take on a different form within that intersection.

10.3 The Role of the Cinematic Form

Cinema is one form of preserving memory. Fumie Kamioka's "Tochūkasō," even thirty years later, is screened and preserved at the Royal Belgian Film Archive and the Yokohama Museum of Art. Those who watch this film experience the sound of dripping water, the cicada in the snow, and the physical texture of the body. This experience becomes part of the viewer's memory—and their body. Cinema continues a kind of "life" through the body of the viewer.

The cinematic form conveys what words alone cannot. Visuals, sounds, and physical movements appeal to the layer before language. This appeal is deeply engraved in the viewer's memory. Cinema is a powerful device for leaving behind memory.

Chapter 11: As a Viewer

11.1 The Meaning of the Act of Watching

Watching a film is not passive consumption. The viewer projects themselves into the film, overlapping the film's narrative with their own, and aligning themselves with the characters. This overlapping shapes the viewer's experience.

When I watched "Tochūkasō," I did not merely consume a story. The film awakened something within me—inquiries into death, memory, and the body. These were latent before the film; the film made them manifest.

The act of watching is an act of evocation. The film awakens something within the viewer. That which is awakened is the "meaning" of the film for the viewer.

11.2 Engaging with the Narrative of Another

A film is the sensation of another person. What Fumie Kamioka engraved was the erosion of the body, the time of life, and the ambiguity of boundaries. I do not know her body directly. Yet, through the film, I temporarily touch her world of sensation. The sound of dripping water, the wings of the cicada—these continue to reside in my body.

Engaging with another's narrative allows us to imagine a way of living different from our own. This imagination expands our world—moving from a self-centered world to the world of another. This expansion is the starting point of ethics.

Engaging with a film about death is to imagine the death of another. This imagination provides clues for considering our own death. The narrative of another illuminates our own narrative.

11.3 Why Record Awakened Thoughts

Why write this book? What is the reason for recording the thoughts evoked by the film?

First, if thoughts are not recorded, they vanish. Thoughts that wander through the mind are eventually forgotten. By putting them into words, they are temporarily fixed. This fixing serves as a clue for one's future self.

Second, thoughts become richer when shared with others. Readers read my thoughts, and their thoughts intersect with mine. Within this intersection, new thoughts are born. Writing makes this intersection possible.

Third, writing is a response to death. My physical body will eventually vanish, but the words I wrote will remain for a time. Though that remaining is transient, the will to leave something behind drives the writing of this book.

The movie theater is a special space for watching films. Sinking into the darkness, we surrender ourselves to the vast screen. Surrounding us are strangers, yet they experience the same narrative at the same time. This shared experience makes the theater trial different from watching a video at home.

In the theater, we turn off our phones and refrain from conversation. We simply surrender to the screen. This surrender deepens the cinematic experience. In a space where distractions are minimized, we can focus more on the imagery, intensifying the evocation from the film.

I no longer remember exactly where the theater was where I watched "Tochūkasō." Yet, that darkness, that silence, the images flowing across the screen remain in my memory. The memory of the place is linked with the memory of the experience. The space of the movie theater is part of the motivation for writing this book.

Conclusion: After the Film

Changes in Impression Over Time

How much time has passed since I watched the film? I do not remember precisely. It could be weeks, or months. As time has passed, my impression of the film has changed.

Initially, what lingered strongly was the rhythm of the revolving-lantern-like editing, the weight of the story dealing with death, and the serene imagery of the remote landscape. These remain in my memory. Yet, as time has passed, other elements have come to the fore—the richness of the metaphor of Cordyceps, the relationship between body and death, and digital survival in the AI era. These were not conscious immediately after watching; my thoughts have matured over time.

Impressions are not fixed. If we watch the same film at different times, different impressions remain. If a different self watches it, different meanings arise. The "meaning" of a film depends on the viewer, the time of viewing, and the context of viewing.

The Direction of the Inquiries Begun by This Film

The inquiries that began with this film remain unanswered. What is death? What is memory? What remains after the body disappears? How does the meaning of death change in the AI era? These inquiries have unfolded in several directions within this book. However, I have offered no definitive answers.

The role of philosophy is not to provide answers, but to open inquiries. If this book can open new inquiries within the reader, that is sufficient. I hope each reader will confront these inquiries within the context of their own life and find their own response.

Handing Over to the Reader

This book ends here. Yet, the thoughts evoked by the film do not end. As readers read this book and weave their own thoughts, those thoughts will be passed to others. Within this chain, the meaning of the film expands.

Please, close the pages quietly. And feel what flows within your own revolving lantern.

Supplementary Chapter

On the Film "Tochūkasō" (Introduction to the Work)

Here, I summarize the overview of the film mentioned in Chapter 1.

Title: Tochūkasō (English title: Cordyceps Sobolifera)  

Director: Fumie Kamioka  

Format: 16mm film, experimental film (personal film)  

Production Era: 1990s  

Collection: Yokohama Museum of Art, among others

This work is not a narrative film. There is no progression based on story, character, or causality. Instead, body, sensation, and image engage the audience directly. The erosion of the body, the blurring of the ego, the collapse of the boundary between human and nature—the ecology of the parasitic Cordyceps fungus functions as a metaphor for these themes.

Memorable images include the scene and sound of dripping water, and the cicada and transparent wings in the snow. The former is interpreted as the "condensation of time," the latter as the "visualization of a brief life." This film depicts the time of life.

Internationally, it has been screened at the Royal Belgian Film Archive (2025 "Diary Films, Transgressive Cinema") and the Munich International Film Festival. It is being reevaluated as a representative work from the golden age of Japanese experimental cinema, within the context of body horror directors like David Cronenberg and Shinya Tsukamoto, as well as the diary films of Jonas Mekas.

In the AI era, some view it as a "film of the future" due to its resonance with "the sensation of being taken over by something else."

Afterword

This book is records of thought evoked by the film "Tochūkasō." It is not film criticism, nor is it a systematic philosophical treatise. It is merely an attempt to put into words what the images watched in that darkness awakened inside me—the sound of dripping water, the cicada in the snow, the sensation remaining in the body. It is an effort to trace that evocation.

Death, memory, the body, and their meaning in the AI era. Is the body the source of value, or a medium of meaning? These inquiries unfolded in several directions in this book. Yet, I have offered no answers. To open inquiries—that is the purpose of this book.

I hope readers will weave their own thoughts within their respective contexts. If this book serves as a clue for that, I am glad.

Finally, I offer my gratitude to the film "Tochūkasō," which provided the catalyst for writing this book, and to its director, Fumie Kamioka. This film parasitizes the body of the viewer, prompting transformation. Its power remains undiminished, even thirty years later.

Supplementary Essay 1: Cultural Diversity of Death

Death is a universal phenomenon. However, the meaning assigned to death, attitudes towards it, and the imagination of the afterlife vary significantly by culture. In Western Christian culture, death is described not as an end, but as a transition to judgment and heaven or hell. The physical body perishes, but the soul remains. This dualism has shaped the Western image of death.

In Eastern Buddhist culture, the concept of reincarnation positions death as a "transition to the next life." The body perishes, but karma is carried over. The metaphor of Cordyceps aligns with this thought—the death of the insect enables the life of the grass. The end of one form is the beginning of another.

The film "Tochūkasō" was created within the context of 1990s Japanese personal and experimental cinema—the lineage of body art, surrealism, and diary films. The viewer may not fully comprehend this context. Yet, by engaging with visuals that reject narrative and leave only sensation, one can relativize their own bodily sensations and image of death. Death is not to be captured in only one way; diverse interpretations exist.

Supplementary Essay 2: Digital Heritage and Ethics

Digital survival in the AI era gives rise to new ethical inquiries. Who manages the data of the deceased? Does "conversing" with an AI that mimics the voice of the deceased compromise their dignity? Is it permissible to construct an AI using a deceased person's data without their consent?

There are no simple answers to these inquiries. Legal frameworks surrounding digital heritage are progressing in various nations, but they remain in transition. Ethical guidelines have not been established either. We continue to engage in trial and error between new technology and old ethics.

From the standpoint of body philosophy, the "dignity" of the deceased means respecting that their body was once an experiencing subject. Rather than treating their traces as mere data, we remember that those traces were the products of a once-living subject. This attitude can serve as a guideline for ethics concerning digital heritage.

Supplementary Essay 3: The Fantasy of "Mind Uploading"

In science fiction and futurology, one often hears of "mind uploading"—transferring human consciousness to digital space to achieve "immortality" as a bodiless existence. The body perishes, but consciousness continues to live inside a computer.

From the perspective of body philosophy, I critique this fantasy. Consciousness is inseparable from the body. Our consciousness has been shaped through the sensations of this body, its movements, and contact with the world. Without the body, that consciousness can no longer be called the "same" consciousness. A "consciousness" that has discarded the body is a "copy" of consciousness, not the original. The original body perishes; the copy is a different existence.

Therefore, "mind uploading" is not immortality, but the creation of a different existence. The self dies. What remains in digital space is something resembling oneself, but it is not oneself. Obscuring this distinction causes us to misidentify the reality of death.

Supplementary Essay 4: Art and the Limits of Language

When speaking of death or the mystical, philosophy and science bump against the limits of language. Yet, art—literature, music, painting, cinema—handles these limits differently. Art points to that which cannot be expressed in words using means other than language.

Cinema approaches the experience of death and loss through image and sound—silences, expressions, and physical movements that language cannot fully explain. These reach the viewer directly. This is why "Tochūkasō" exercises restraint with words. There is something that escapes when put into words; therefore, it employs visuals and silence instead.

This book attempts to approach what the film demonstrated using words. It will not reach it completely; words cannot replace images. Yet, contemplating through words holds meaning. Words organize and conceptualize thoughts, making them shareable with others. That which the image demonstrates, and that which words speak—both enrich our understanding of death.

Supplementary Essay 5: The Politics of Memory

Memory is not a phenomenon confined to the interior of the individual. Memory is socially constructed. What we remember and what we forget is not determined by personal free will alone. States, communities, and media provide the frameworks of memory—anniversaries, monuments, textbooks, films. These shape "what we ought to remember."

The film "Tochūkasō" rejects narrative and engraves the traces of body and sensation. Such expression is often overlooked by mainstream commercial cinema. Fumie Kamioka engraved these easily overlooked sensations onto 16mm film. The act of remembering is political. What we remember, and whose sensations we speak of—this choice shapes how our world appears.

The memory of the deceased operates similarly. Whose death we remember and whose we forget involves political and social forces. Cinema fragmentarily resurrects the traces of life of nameless deceased individuals. This resurrection participates in the politics of memory.

Supplementary Essay 6: Philosophy of Time

What is time? This inquiry is a classic dilemma of philosophy. In his *Confessions*, Augustine wrote that when he discusses time, he no longer knows what he is speaking of. Time is the fundamental condition of our experience, yet capturing time itself as an object of study is difficult.

Bergson discussed time as "duration." Time is not a spatialized linear line—from past to present, from present to future. Time is a qualitative flow. The past permeates the present; the present carries the past. Memory is the manifestation of this permeation.

The revolving-lantern-like editing of the film "Tochūkasō" visualizes this view of time. Past and present overlap on the same plane, rendering chronology invalid. The viewer experiences the duration of time. This experience adds the dimension of time to reflections on death. Our death occurs within time. Thinking about what time is forms part of thinking about what death is.

Supplementary Essay 7: Affirmation of Finitude

We are finite beings. We cannot deny this finitude. However, how we accept this finitude leaves room for choice.

We can receive finitude as a curse. Time is insufficient, the body decays, and everything eventually vanishes. We live our lives within this despair.

Alternatively, we can receive finitude as an affirmation. Time is limited; therefore, this moment is precious. The body decays; therefore, connecting through this body now holds meaning. Finitude introduces tension and depth to life. If time were infinite, whatever we chose could be undone. But time is limited; therefore, the choice we make now is heavy.

Heidegger linked the affirmation of finitude to death as "one's ownmost possibility." When we accept death as our own, our life recovers "authenticity." We awaken from daily inertia to confront what is truly important. The affirmation of finitude is one form of this awakening.

Supplementary Essay 8: Self as Narrative

We understand ourselves as a narrative—I have lived this kind of life, made these choices, and engaged with these people. This narrative supports the identity of "I."

Death is the end of that narrative. Yet, if there is someone to tell it, the narrative continues after the end. Those left behind speak the narrative of the deceased, preserving them as a kind of "existence."

This book is also a narrative. It puts into words and records thoughts evoked by the film. Should this record reach readers, it will intersect with their narratives, perhaps taking on a different form. Narrative is generated, transformed, and passed on between teller and listener. Within this passing on lies something beyond death—not complete immortality, but the duration of traces.

Supplementary Essay 9: Ethics of Watching

Watching a film involves ethics. Watching the narrative of another, and watching the death of another within that narrative, prompts ethical inquiries.

It is possible to watch the suffering of another as consumption—consuming death and loss in cinema as mere entertainment. This consumption lightens the suffering of the other. Or, conversely, watching the suffering of another may make us feel the relative richness of our own life. Whether this sensation is ethically problematic is an inquiry we must face.

Levinas argued that the face of the other presents us with an ethical demand. The face of the other says, "Thou shalt not kill." The faces of others in films—the characters—also present a demand to us. Do not treat their narrative as mere consumption. Do not treat their death lightly. How we respond to this demand is where the ethics of watching reside.

Supplementary Essay 10: Why Cinema?

Reflections on mortality are possible through many mediums—reading philosophy, reading literature, experiencing the death of someone close to us. All of these awaken thoughts on death. Why then does this book begin with cinema?

Cinema possesses qualities that other mediums do not. First, the simultaneity of image and sound. Atmosphere, air, and physical movement that words alone cannot convey reach the viewer directly. Second, the manipulation of time. Cinema can compress, expand, and bend time. The revolving-lantern-like editing is one example. Third, the collective experience. In movie theaters, many people experience the same narrative at the same time. This sharing places individual experience within a social context.

The film "Tochūkasō" links these qualities to the theme of death, conveying its weight through image and sound. Its revolving-lantern-like editing allows us to experience the flow of memory. Each viewer draws their own meaning from that experience. This book is one example of that drawing out.

Supplementary Essay 11: The Power of Metaphor

Why does the metaphor of Cordyceps appeal to us so strongly? Metaphor is a means of understanding the unknown through the known. Death is the unknown; we do not experience it directly. Thus, we use metaphors to understand it, and Cordyceps is one of them.

The insect dies, and the grass grows. This image offers a perspective that views death not as an "end" but as a "transformation." This perspective has the potential to change our attitude toward death. Fearing death too much narrows life, while ignoring death makes life shallow. The metaphor of Cordyceps shows a third path—death as transformation, an end that is simultaneously a transition to something else. This ambiguity is the power of metaphor.

Metaphor is not perfect. The metaphor of Cordyceps cannot be applied directly to human death. The relationship between insect and fungus is not identical to the relationship between human life and death. Yet, even if imperfect, metaphor advances thought. The perspective opened by metaphor generates new inquiries, which in turn invite new metaphors and concepts. Thought progresses in this manner.

Supplementary Essay 12: On Physical Reactions

Some viewers of "Tochūkasō" experience physical reactions. This relates to the gut-brain axis, where emotions and sensory stimuli in the brain connect directly to reactions in the gut. Experimental films utilize the physical-route rather than the meaning-route. The sound of dripping water, the quiet space, and the transparent wings of the cicada are all elements that stimulate the autonomic nervous system.

Those with sensitive bodies—such as those with irritable bowel syndrome—are particularly susceptible. Their autonomic nervous system is sensitive, and visceral sensation is strong. Where average viewers see only "mysterious visuals," their body reacts. This also means their sensibility is heightened; they are watching with their body, not just their eyes.

Those who find this film "too beautiful" tend to have a close alignment between body and meaning. The inquiry of whether the body is the source of value or a medium of meaning is philosophical, yet for those with sensitive bodies, it is a highly realistic query. When the film refuses explanation and leaves only sensation, the body of the viewer provides the answer.

Supplementary Essay 13: Genealogy of Body Philosophy

Body philosophy underwent significant development in twentieth-century philosophy. Since Descartes, Western philosophy separated mind and body, placing the mind in a superior position—"I think, therefore I am." The thinking subject was captured as severed from the body.

Phenomenology questioned this separation. Husserl, Heidegger, and Merleau-Ponty reimagined the body not as a mere object, but as the subject experiencing the world. Rather than a "mind" in our head operating the body, the body itself contacts the world and generates meaning. Describing how this body works within the world became one of the tasks of phenomenology.

Merleau-Ponty's *Phenomenology of Perception* is the classic text of this description. He discussed the body as the "lived body." The body is not an object observed from the outside; it experiences the world as a subject. Within this experience, the body feels itself—the hand touching is also the hand touched. This self-touching structure supports the subjectivity of the body.

Death is the cessation of this body's function. When the body no longer contacts the world, the subject vanishes. From the viewpoint of body philosophy, the meaning of death is exhausted there.

Supplementary Essay 14: Singularity of "Traces" in the Digital Age

In the past, the traces left by the deceased were limited—belongings, letters, photographs, and the memories of others. These were physical existences that degraded and dispersed with time.

In the digital age, the nature of traces has changed. Emails, social media posts, photographs saved in the cloud, search histories, and purchase records remain on servers in digital form. Physical degradation does not occur as long as the server is maintained; traces have become more permanent.

However, permanence does not guarantee accessibility. Digital traces are protected by passwords and access rights. Whether the bereaved can access the accounts of the deceased depends on platform policies. The management of digital heritage presents new challenges.

Furthermore, digital traces are easily modified. Photos can be edited, and voices can be synthesized. There is a possibility that the traces of the deceased may be modified intentionally or unintentionally, threatening their authenticity. From the standpoint of body philosophy, the physical body of the deceased no longer exists; the remaining traces are the "products" of that body. How we maintain the authenticity of those products is a new inquiry of the digital age.

Supplementary Essay 15: Memory and Identity

We understand who we are through memory—I have lived this life and had these experiences. This continuity of memory supports the identity of "I."

However, is memory reliable? Memory is reconstructed each time it is recalled, transforming in the process. At times, false memories can feel like real memories. The reliability of memory is not absolute.

Even so, we live relying on memory. Without memory, we would not know who we are. The fragility of memory is the fragility of identity. Death ultimately exposes this fragility. The memory of the deceased depends on the memory of others. When there is no one left to remember, the "existence" of the deceased also vanishes. Our identity is ultimately entrusted to the memory of others.

Supplementary Essay 16: Aesthetics of Transience

Japanese culture holds a tradition of finding beauty in "transience" (mono no aware). Cherry blossoms are beautiful precisely because they scatter. This sense of impermanence, linked with Buddhism, has shaped Japanese aesthetics. The concept of *mono no aware* contains this sensitivity to transience.

The metaphor of Cordyceps can be read within this tradition. The insect dies transiently. The grass grows in summer and soon withers. This transience, conversely, makes each moment of life shine. If life continued eternally, the value of this moment would be relatively lower. But life is limited; therefore, this moment is precious.

The aesthetics of transience do not deny death; death is inevitable. Yet, a life predicated on death can be lived more intensely. This intensity is the core of the aesthetics of transience.

This book is written in words. Those words reach readers, becoming part of their memory. At that moment, the content of this book generates new meaning within the context of each reader, beyond the author's intent. Writing is the act that makes this generation of meaning possible.

The author's physical body will eventually vanish, but the words they wrote will remain for a time. Though that remaining is transient—paper degrades, and digital data may become inaccessible with the obsolescence of mediums—there is no complete permanence.

Even so, we write. This will is a response to death. Because complete extinction is difficult to accept, we leave something behind. This act temporarily fixes the meaning of life. The fixing is not perfect, but without it, nothing remains.

Supplementary Essay 18: Keeping the Inquiry Open

This book has opened many inquiries. What is death? What is memory? What remains after the body disappears? How does the meaning of death change in the AI era? To these, this book has offered no definitive answers.

The role of philosophy is not to provide answers, but to open inquiries. When an inquiry is opened, thought begins to move. Each reader confronts the inquiry within the context of their own life to find their own response. These responses cannot be foreseen by the author. However, keeping the possibility of these unforeseen responses open—that is the purpose of this book.

The film "Tochūkasō" presented inquiries to the viewer. This book has attempted to receive those inquiries through words and open them further. The inquiry does not end here; it will open further in the hands of the reader. Beyond that opening lies the possibility of a new understanding of our life and death.

© SHIRO & Co.

First published: 2026-03-09