I seem to share an obsession with Shinji Kajio, the original author of the story this manga adapts. Some of the moments I remember most fondly from different journeys are conversations with strangers that surprised me in one way or another. I once met an old man that had been walking for a whole year, all the way from Jerusalem to Santiago; and other people have found me in similarly uncommon (albeit less impressive) circumstances. Those encounters didn't last long, but have a distinctly strong presence in my mind.
The year is 1967, months after the Apollo 1 disaster and at the gates of the Vietnam war. A sci-fi enthusiast is on his way back home, having emptied his wallet on an impulse-driven journey. Aboard the return ship, he meets a young woman who claims to have memories of Earth's entire history, which leads to a couple days of conversation and a bit of romantic tension.
The manga's biggest strength is its visuals. Every page is expressive and sharp, full of a kind of sensibility and texture I rarely see even in the most celebrated comics, painting a complete picture of both the setting and characters. It lets you know the main duo through very specific reactions (especially Emanon) but always with subtlety and an amount of respect for their intimacy that's almost surprising given the amounts of horny packed in Kenji Tsuruta's other works. As they keep talking and vague ideas about her condition fly by, the mind jumps between attention, speculation and nostalgia, forgetting the time limit the journey is putting on their relationship and enjoying the strange familiarity. A note saying "good morning, good bye" marks the last time they see each other, and the closing pages make it clear that it will be only a memory, never taking reality's place but snatching the mind every once in a while.
Memories of Emanon is the rare self insert I enjoy without a second thought. It's a relationship framed by the knowledge that you may never see the other person again, a context that gives form to the interaction itself but only becomes conscious the moment it's all over. It's idealized in the way you would expect from the crystalization of a writer's fantasies, but it's also a passing thought, all melancholy and no closure. Going back to it reminds me of places and people, and I know that my current work is seriously influenced by it. The real experience is trapped inside the single volume, but my memory of it feels distinctly real and its ramifications have taken on a meaning of their own.
A few years after my first read, I'm fairly sure Kaijo was right.