The “essence” of moe is protectiveness; a moe character is one for whom you might take a bullet. And it isn’t about sexual attraction, I’d say, even if others might say otherwise. Have you noticed how characters in ero doujins are often stripped of their canonical personalities almost entirely? I’m guessing that’s a necessity. I’ve talked about this, about how I subscribe to a gradient model of moe and gar, before.

At any rate, when Otouto-kun, who I’ve conscripted into reading Love Hina, mentioned that Keitaro might be moe, I couldn’t help but wonder.

Pop quiz: why is Keitaro likable?

You may answer differently, but I’d say it’s because he isn’t likable. If a screwup like him can succeed at life and love, why couldn’t we, in his circumstances? We want to see him pull through, as that would, in a way, confirm that we, too, could probably pull through. (He’s also genuinely decent beneath all the fatal clumsiness and young male hormones, but that doesn’t come through as often as the former two, especially in the manga.) Granted that we’d never find ourselves in his position, but it’s fiction-land, so we’re allowed to imagine.

And it’s not as if his failings are his fault, necessarily. Normally they manifest as a result of sheer bad luck. Is it unreasonable for us to feel inclined to protect him from unfortunate circumstance? If we could guide him, maybe he could prevail; if he can prevail, surely we could, too.

This is, perhaps, a convoluted train of thought. But Keitaro certainly isn’t gar (not like Seta, on whom he develops a raging man-crush), and he’s often too ironic to fall within the range of relatability. Is he moe, then, like a younger brother we must nurture into proper manhood?

This is not to say we can shove all characters ever into a linear scale. Etymologically, moe comes from “moeru” (萌える/to bud or sprout), though 燃える (to burn or get fired up) is pronounced no differently; either could indicate a certain manner of feeling toward a character. I’ve always thought of it as akin to warmth or affection. It’s possible — likely, even — that Keitaro doesn’t steal your heart in that manner, in which case moe might be obstructed. Whether or not we can call him moe may then depend on how much we’re distancing the state from emotion, and I’d be willing to bet that most of us do not, as a rule, distance it very far from emotion.

Personally I doubt I’ve ever found Keitaro moe (or that I’ve ever felt moe toward Keitaro, if you prefer it that way). I suppose I could, though, if only as an intellectual exercise.

For one thing, it puts the idea of college to work in a curious way, and if you’ve been listening to me at all since June of last year, you’ll know I have a bit of a thing for academia.

(The usual disclaimer applies: I’m getting my images from scans floating around the internet, as it’s simply most convenient for me, but I do endorse the purchase of this one if you have the will and the economic prowess.)

Depending on one’s point of view, higher education can be a means to an end or an end in itself. For me, at present, it’s both; I’m using the M.A. program to make up for my crippling indecisiveness throughout most of undergrad in hopes of being accepted to a decent Ph.D. program. Love Hina, however, deals with college almost exclusively as a goal to be achieved, a kind of “good end” for several characters, and it’s mostly detached from its role in helping students find well-paying jobs and producing an educated workforce. Until Keitaro finds his calling somewhat late in the story, there isn’t much talk of what these characters will do when they graduate (what they’ll be when they grow up, as it were); they’re interested in Tokyo University due to matters of love. They have childhood promises to keep, and by God they’re going to keep them.

Huh. It only now occurred to me that I chose my undergrad school for roughly the same reason. Protip: don’t do that.

Love Hina’s college aspirants have the advantage of their destination being one of the best, if not the best, educational institutions in Japan, but that acts as little more than an obstacle. You don’t really see the characters stop and think, “You know, I’d be a hell of a contender in the job market if I went to Toudai.” You do see them daydream about sharing homemade lunch on the quad and holding a student wedding. This, to me, seems very odd. Consider my perspective: I live in an area where the job market is abhorrent, so it doesn’t take much for me to think of college as a means; I do enjoy college for its own sake; my first shot at romance failed on a college campus.

These characters have the luxury to make light of my experiences, but, really, I don’t resent them for that. If anything, it’s refreshing. They’re young and free; they should enjoy it. Love Hina isn’t what I’d point to as an example of something representative of the college experience anyway; we never really see the characters in school. Perhaps it’s representative of the rounin experience (was that a popular topic in the late 90s?), but I suppose I wouldn’t know. Not that I’d mind taking a few years off if I could manage a dorm full of eccentric young ladies in the meantime.

I believe Akamatsu did go to college, and that he earned a literature degree (hell yeah). If I could sit down with him (and if I could, you know, navigate moonspeak), I’d have to ask if his goals were as flighty as Keitaro’s, or if he had more practical intentions. I don’t suppose a lit degree would be entirely useless to a writer of sequential fiction, after all.