What Is The Moral Of 'Fish Is Fish'?

I recently read 'Why Fish Don't Exist' and was fascinated by how it blends true events with philosophical musings. The book centers around David Starr Jordan, a real-life ichthyologist who classified thousands of fish species, only to have his work destroyed by the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. The author, Lulu Miller, uses Jordan's story as a springboard to explore themes of chaos, order, and the human desire to categorize the world. What makes the book so compelling is how Miller intertwines her own personal journey with Jordan's biography, creating this rich tapestry of history, science, and memoir. The true story aspect comes from Jordan's actual life and scientific work, but Miller elevates it beyond mere biography. She digs into the darker aspects of Jordan's legacy, including his involvement with eugenics, which adds layers of complexity to what initially seems like an inspiring tale of perseverance. The book's title comes from Jordan's classification system being undermined by evolving scientific understanding - the fish categories he created weren't as absolute as he believed. Miller uses this to ask bigger questions about how we create meaning in a chaotic universe, making the book as much about ideas as it is about historical facts.

I've always been drawn to how coffee shop AUs with Eiji from 'Banana Fish' handle his emotional arc. These fics often strip away the violence of canon, focusing instead on quiet moments where Eiji's kindness and resilience shine. The vulnerability isn't in physical danger but in him navigating love or grief in mundane settings—like burning latte art or remembering Ash while steaming milk. What gets me is how authors use coffee rituals as metaphors. The way Eiji meticulously cleans espresso machines mirrors his canon habit of tending to wounds; both are acts of care. Some fics even parallel his barista patience with his canon role as Ash's emotional anchor. The best ones don’t shy from his loneliness—stealing glances at empty chairs where Ash should be, or tracing old coffee stains like scars. It’s a softer grief, but no less visceral.

Early mornings at the fish market set the rhythm for how good sashimi should be handled, and that's exactly how I describe what happens behind the scenes at a place like Yaba Sushi. I watch their process in three big stages: humane handling and chilling, parasite control and aging, then the precision-butcher and presentation. Priority one is how the fish are dispatched — many respected sushi spots favor quick bleeding techniques like ikejime or prompt gill-cut bleeding because that preserves texture and flavor. After that the fish go straight into ice or an ice-slurry so the flesh cools fast; keeping the cold chain unbroken is everything. For parasite safety, they rely on deep freezing protocols (the industry standards are usually to blast-freeze at very low temps, for example -35°C for a short time or -20°C for several days) for species that commonly carry worms. Tuna often avoids long freezing because of low parasite risk, but it still gets careful inspection and controlled aging. When it’s time to prep, the filleting is meticulous: pin-bone removal, skinning when appropriate, and vacuum-packing or icy trays for short-term storage. For oily fish like mackerel, I’ve seen the extra step of curing with salt and vinegar to tighten the flesh and tame oiliness. Knife work is almost ceremonial — one clean single stroke with a yanagiba-style blade, wiped and rinsed between cuts, slicing against the grain to get that silky mouthfeel. Hygiene, temperature logs, and trusted suppliers are what make the whole routine safe and delicious. Honestly, watching that choreography of cold, steel, and restraint is one of my favorite tiny pleasures — it feels like craftsmanship every time.

My go-to setup for drawing a fish usually starts with a range of graphite pencil grades: a hard pencil like 2H for the initial skeleton and scale patterns, an HB for midlines and softer outlines, and a 2B–4B for shading, shadows, and the juicy darks in the mouth and behind the fins. I break the process into phases. I sketch lightly with 2H to block in proportions and fin placement so I can erase freely without scuffing the paper. Then I switch to HB to refine contours and suggest scale rows. For texture and deep contrast I reach for a 4B or 6B and a blending stump to pull subtle gradients across the body. A kneaded eraser is indispensable for lifting highlights on scales and the glare on the eye. If I want a painterly wash effect, I’ll use a water-soluble graphite stick or a water brush to make the darker tones melt into softer midtones. The paper matters—a slightly toothy 80–120 lb sketchbook handles multiple layers and erasing without falling apart, and I always finish with a light spray of workable fixative so the delicate textures don’t smudge. I love how the right pencil mix can make scales shimmer on the page.

For me, the best reference photos show the fish from several clear, different angles. I like a clean profile (side view) to get the body silhouette and fin placement, a three-quarter view to understand depth and how the head sits on the body, and a head-on or mouth-open shot for nostrils, teeth, gill slit shapes, and jaw mechanics. High-resolution close-ups of scales, eyes, and fin rays are invaluable for texture work and for catching the tiny irregularities that make a drawing believable. I also look for photos that capture motion: a frozen frame of a fish turning, accelerating, or fin-fanning helps me draw fluid poses rather than stiff outlines. Lighting matters — photos with clear rim light or side lighting reveal form and scale curvature, while silhouettes are perfect for strong, graphic compositions. For deeper study I collect x-ray or diagram-style images showing the skeleton and muscle attachments; mixing anatomical references with live-photo shots is a game-changer. Lately I keep a folder of underwater shots, studio-lit aquarium pics, and macro detail photos so I can pull the exact mood and detail I need for each piece, and it always improves the result for me.

I recently stumbled upon a gem called 'Drowning in Daylight' that rewrites Pi and Mork's confession scene with such intense angst it left me breathless. The author builds tension by delaying the confession, making Pi spiral into self-doubt while Mork struggles with his fear of vulnerability. The rooftop setting turns into a battleground of unspoken words, and when they finally collide, it’s messy and raw—far from the original’s sweetness. Another standout is 'Edge of the Sky,' where Mork’s confession comes during a thunderstorm, symbolizing the chaos of their emotions. The writer nails the push-pull dynamic, with Pi resisting out of sheer terror of being hurt again. The dialogue cuts deep, especially when Mork whispers, 'You’re the only one who makes me feel like I’m not falling.' It’s painfully beautiful.

Jeremy Wade’s interview about 'How to Think Like a Fish' was such a refreshing dive into the mind of a seasoned angler. What stood out to me wasn’t just the technical fishing tips—though those were gold—but how he framed patience as this almost meditative practice. He talked about reading water currents like they’re whispers, and how fish aren’t just targets but puzzles shaped by millennia of evolution. What really hooked me (pun intended) was his storytelling. He’d describe tracking a mythical-sized catfish in the Amazon like it was a detective novel, blending ecology with sheer adventure. It made me realize fishing isn’t just about the catch; it’s about syncing with rhythms way older than human hustle. Now I eye my local river with new respect—and way more bug spray.

The first time I saw the Eleventh Doctor dipping fish fingers into custard, I couldn't help but laugh—it's such a wonderfully bizarre combination that somehow feels perfectly in character. To me, this quirky meal represents the Doctor's childlike wonder and rejection of human conventions. While most aliens in sci-fi are serious or menacing, here's this ancient Time Lord gleefully embracing something absurd. It mirrors how the show balances cosmic stakes with whimsy—saving galaxies while debating snack preferences. The combo also feels like a metaphor for the show itself: two things that shouldn't work together (sci-fi and absurd humor) creating something unexpectedly delightful. Deeper still, I think it symbolizes the Doctor's outsider perspective. They don't see food 'rules' the way humans do, just as they don't share our assumptions about time or morality. That custard scene in 'The Eleventh Hour' was Matt Smith immediately defining his Doctor—someone who finds joy in chaos. Over time, the meme-worthy snack became a touchstone for fans, representing the show's ability to turn mundane things into magic. Whenever I rewatch that scene, it reminds me why I fell in love with 'Doctor Who'—it finds the extraordinary in fish fingers.