Septopus

Ever stumbled upon a story so bizarre yet fascinating that it sticks with you for days? That's exactly how I felt when I first heard about 'Septopus.' It's this wild, surreal adventure about a seven-armed octopus (yes, you read that right—seven, not eight) named Sev who embarks on a quest to find their missing limb. The journey takes Sev through underwater cities ruled by jellyfish aristocrats, ship graveyards haunted by ghostly eels, and even a forbidden trench where time flows backward. Along the way, Sev meets a cast of equally oddball sea creatures, like a narwhal with a detachable horn and a hermit crab who lives in a soda can. The deeper themes about identity and belonging hit unexpectedly hard—especially when Sev realizes the 'missing arm' might not be physical at all.

What really sold me was the artwork. Every page feels like diving into a dream, with colors shifting from neon corals to abyssal blues. The creator clearly had fun blending marine biology with pure fantasy. By the end, I was left wondering if Sev ever found that eighth arm... or if they even needed to. It’s one of those stories that lingers, like the smell of saltwater after you’ve left the beach.

Oh, 'Septopus'! That title instantly brings back memories of diving into its whimsical world. The author is none other than the brilliant and slightly eccentric Takashi Murakami. His work blends surreal imagery with playful storytelling, and 'Septopus' is no exception—it’s like a psychedelic daydream wrapped in ink. Murakami’s style is so distinct; you can spot his influence from a mile away, whether it’s in his fine art or his ventures into literature. I stumbled upon this book after falling in love with his 'Superflat' aesthetic, and it didn’t disappoint. The way he marries childlike wonder with deeper, sometimes unsettling themes is just mesmerizing.

If you’re into art that challenges norms or stories that feel like they’re bubbling over with creativity, Murakami’s stuff is a goldmine. 'Septopus' isn’t as widely discussed as some of his other works, but it’s a hidden gem for fans of his chaotic, colorful universe. I’d recommend pairing it with his visual art—it makes the experience even richer.

I've long been fascinated by long-form works that deliberately stretch themselves across a specific number of parts, and septologies feel almost ritualistic to me. The number seven carries so much cultural freight—seven days, seven colors, seven deadly sins, seven virtues—that creators who choose seven entries often lean into ideas of completeness and cyclical time. In a septology you get room to let themes breathe: identity isn't just established and resolved, it’s interrogated, folded back on itself, and revealed in echoes across multiple volumes.

Symbolism in these cycles tends to repeat and accumulate. You’ll find recurring objects or images—doors, mirrors, clocks, water—that act like anchors, pulling disparate scenes into a single symbolic register. Time itself often becomes a character: memory and repetition blur past and present, so motifs like circles, spiral staircases, or repeated refrains underline that sense of orbiting around a central truth. Mythic patterns show up too; pilgrimages, trials, and seven-stage initiations give the arc a quasi-religious or alchemical resonance.

I also love how septologies play with fragmentation versus unity. Each book can feel like an independent mood or mode—lyrical, brutal, comic—yet arranged so that by the seventh installment a coherent image appears. Whether it’s the cosy adventure laced into 'The Chronicles of Narnia' or the introspective spiral of 'Septology', creators use repetition, variation, and the symbolic weight of seven to make the whole greater than the sum of its parts. It leaves me thinking about how endings can be both completion and beginning, which is oddly comforting.

I fell into 'Septology' like stepping into a slow, rhythmic tide, and it kept pulling me under in the best way. The book follows an older painter named Asle, who lives a quiet, isolated life and spends a lot of time in his head; there's another figure, Ales, who appears as a kind of mirror or echo, and their relationship — whether literal or imagined — is one of the book's magnetic mysteries. Jon Fosse writes in a pared-down, repetitive, prayer-like cadence that makes ordinary moments feel sacred: making tea, thinking about a childhood, watching light on water. The plot isn't what's driving you so much as the texture of consciousness itself.

What fascinated me most was how Fosse treats time and voice. Sentences circle back on themselves, refrains return with slight shifts, and memory folds into present awareness until the borders blur. Themes of mortality, art, language, and faith keep surfacing without being hammered home; instead the repetition lets them resonate. If you're used to linear narratives, 'Septology' might feel elusive, but if you like novels that act like slow music — where the same motif returns and deepens — this will stick to your bones. I closed it feeling oddly soothed and unsettled, like I'd just listened to a long, honest confession or a hymn sung in a tiny room with one light on.