2023.11.23
Seunghee You
Seunghee You
In Hayao Miyazaki’s film The Boy and the Heron, the character Mahito speaks with his great-uncle, an ancestor who governs an entire world. During their conversation, Mahito explains that the scar on his head—formed in a moment of rage—contains his own malice. He declares that because he carries such malice within himself, he is unfit to inherit and rule his great-uncle’s world. Human beings generally attempt to conceal their darker impulses; even from themselves, they wish to deny what they do not want to see. Yet Mahito, at the very moment when he is offered an absurd and overwhelming power—the right to govern a world—confesses his malice without a second of hesitation. This scene of confession seems to suggest that Mahito’s purity lies precisely in his willingness to approach truth through acknowledgment.
Despite hearing this confession, the great-uncle continues to urge Mahito to take on the role. It is likely that the great-uncle’s first reason for choosing Mahito was precisely this purity—the courage to openly confess his own malice. The scar on Mahito’s head is a trace of self-inflicted injury, carrying his resentment and injustice. The confusing and overwhelming circumstances that a young boy was forced to endure led Mahito into a period of wandering, and the scar may be understood as a manifestation of that turmoil. For this reason, it feels difficult to regard the malice contained in Mahito’s wound as wholly evil.
In the early part of the film, during his period of wandering, Mahito withdraws from the world and lives a self-enclosed, isolated life. At this stage, he is entirely unaware of his own self-closure, carrying within himself a quiet but sloshing malice. However, through his mid-film journey into a new world, Mahito regains his laughter, learns to forgive, and finds emotional stability. Ultimately, by confessing his malice, he arrives at a deeper understanding of the true value of life. As the title of this essay suggests—When One’s Own Malice Looms Large, Purity Draws Near—Mahito’s purity emerges precisely at the moment he becomes conscious of his malice. That malice surfaces through his encounter with death. In other words, truth may be understood as something that exists close to death and can only be approached through purity.
The world Mahito explores is the afterlife. It is inhabited by dead souls unable to hunt living creatures, by Kiriko in her youth who hunts on their behalf, by the warawara, beings that exist before birth, and by the deceased mother and missing aunt from the living world. In encountering those who do not exist—or who have disappeared—Mahito is led to experience emotions of pure love and forgiveness. Among the various encounters with death in the afterlife, his meeting with his aunt—whom he had struggled to accept as a maternal figure—proves especially significant. Confronting her in the realm of death allows Mahito to recognize her pure love and sacrifice, ultimately enabling him to accept her as his mother.
Mahito’s journey is, at its core, a meditation on death. Through his travels, he confronts the nature of death as something that disappears and is forgotten, and through this confrontation he matures while searching for his true self. When we face death deeply, we are granted an opportunity for self-reflection. Reflection allows us to recognize our own malice; recognition gives rise to humility; and humility enables us to approach all things as if seeing them for the first time in childhood. In this way, reflection upon one’s own malice leads toward purity.
Whenever I encounter the works of Henri Matisse (1869–1954), an artist I deeply admire, I experience a sense of lightness, as though my mind were filled with something affirmative. This arises from the sincerity and purity with which he gazed upon his subjects. Yet his works are by no means merely light. The subjects, rendered with lines and touches that may appear fragile or rough, possess a tangible reality infused with energy, producing a quiet yet profound resonance within that lightness. Similarly, Hayao Miyazaki’s works feature an innocent and gentle visual language that evokes childhood sensibilities, while simultaneously demanding deep reflection on human life.
Perhaps this duality of purity—appearing light yet carrying noble weight—is its true mode of existence. Purity may seem simple or delicate, yet it endures with gravity and dignity. In contemporary society, preserving purity is increasingly difficult. Yet it is precisely because of this difficulty that we must strive even harder not to lose it. The quality of purity—its lack of pretense, its truthfulness—has the power to render the world whole. In an era where endless transformations and hybridizations occur simultaneously, safeguarding wholeness may be the most certain way to safeguard oneself.