F

It's a good racing manga. It captures what racers go through mentally and physically during their careers. But there's too much rape and murder in it, it's ridiculous at this point. I just got to a point where the main girl is letting a fucking like 8 year old rape her. 99% of the main women get raped and something bad happens to them so they get written off, they're either killed or put in prison. I get it was a different time back when this was written but I just personally can't stand it. I came into it expecting a racing novel with thenormal drama happening off track since there wasn't any tags about physiological or drama for it. But there's rape or murder every few chapters it's horrible.

Breakneck speeds on a race track are symbolic of many things, usually the emotions of the race, perhaps the racer, but always the larger than life goal of competition. Competitive racing isn't limited to rivalries between the athletes; often it's a challenge against oneself and their psyche. They battle turbulent passions on the long strip of asphalt, feeling alive only when experiencing the thrill of barely making a corner. The fiery hunger for speed lies in the heart of F as a series, firmly holding onto that pathos throughout dozens of volumes. It follows a hot-blooded youth from the countryside, Gunma Akagi, an egotistical wannaberacer who has lost his position in a wealthy upbringing. Gunma, estranged from the Akagi household, has only his talent, a genius mechanic friend, and a lofty dream to race in Formula One. The highlight of the story as it unfolds is undoubtedly Gunma's growth as a man, and the representation of his masculinity shifts from flashy technique to composed courage. F symbolizes the many facets of his character, evolving into a fictional racing icon and challenging the best of the world for Japan. Needless to say, behind the glory, he's driven by less than pretty circumstances. There's a fascinating theme that reappears throughout the story, and the characters will even verbalize this fact that misery makes Gunma faster. That idea further branches off into a number of possibilities, all of which are intentionally not particularly established. Maybe he's faster as an escape, or his troubles usher away his fear of death, but most likely of all, his concentration has always been on something not really as tangible as the aforementioned. That mystique shrouds the storytelling, and much of the characters are aware of this phenomenon in theory. However, as the reader gets a glimpse of the racetrack, at some point, Gunma's death-defying racing convinces us that everything is swell until conflict comes knocking once again. Generally, that's the structure of the series, where each arc stacks an additional layer of mental pressure upon Gunma that he must come to terms with. Even so, the plot avoids repetition by virtue of moving up the ladder of racing prestige and increasing what's at stake, from racing for hardware to proving a point to oneself. Admittedly, the climactic moments in certain arcs are slightly bogged down by instances of senseless evil that border beyond the realm of reality, but they remain far and few between in the midst of a search for purpose. F's real beauty rears its head when its immersed in the technicalities of the circuit and inexplicable speed. Formula One is the highest class of international racing, and even in the lower classes, the machines are all more or less equal in capability. Power output doesn't create much of a gap at that level of competition, and that is when it's left to the driver's ability to push the car past its limits. The series describes it as a racer reaching a scope outside of casual comprehension—120% of the engine's capacity. Noboru Rokuda skillfully personifies these abstract concepts through opponents, or Gunma, even bringing about the question of why we race. Not just the origin, but more along the lines of our primitive instinct in open space. The circuit is a closed-off loop, and the passion to drive faster is sparked by a desire to return to the start faster. It sounds obvious, although lending thought to the idea reveals that our brains are wired around achieving a personal sensation of perfection, and there is very little as raw as driving through the same track hundreds of times and merely shaving off miliseconds to grasp at idealism. Rokuda's depiction of racing is like revenge against open space. It exists, so it must be conquered by any means. The emphasis of sacrifice to reach such heights elevates F, as we witness not only Gunma but many racers gambling their very lives during accidents. I would argue the element of tragedy secures a spot for this series among the best of the genre, freely experimenting with the lethality of dangerous but necessary racing prowess. The narrative strongly symbolizes the vanity of dreams, a momentary chase that we cannot avoid. It's holistically a rousing drama barring my issue with the extent of sexual violence present, mostly unnecessary and overbearing in glossed over suffering. However, when we shift our focus to the constantly evolving ups and downs of Gunma's career, F becomes a love letter to racing, often referencing real Japanese history in the sport. Rokuda's art illustrates the circuit with a great deal of detail, where many of the panels are full-blown spreads of location and mechanical precision. Humanity harbors a hunger, going to great lengths to tame the wind.