The Best Manga You've Never Heard Of

Sailor Moon, Death Note, My Hero Academia — you know them, you love them, you've lent out your copies so many times you've lost count. Manga has conquered the world, from Pokémon-reading grade schoolers to horror hounds eager for the latest from Junji Ito. There's a series out there for everyone, and an absolute ocean of content to swim through. Plus, in the age of simultaneous publishing, e-readers, and the lightning-fast work of today's professional translators, it's easier than ever for anyone, with any device or a library card, to dive into the depths of the Japanese comic book industry.

But for all the blockbuster titles out there, getting kids and grandparents alike into Chi's Sweet Home and Goodnight Punpun, there are thousands more that pass beneath the radar. The reasons why are myriad: ambitious genre-blending, out-there art, sheer bad luck. Yet these titles are as deserving of attention as any well-loved copy of Bleach. Join us as we explore the world of underappreciated manga, one page at a time.

Upon meeting a dancer she admires, Masumi, our heroine, finds she cannot speak. Words cannot convey the depths of her feeling towards this person — and so she dances. So impressed is the dancer that he sets Masumi on the path to ballet greatness, via admission to an elite school known for turning out the finest dancers. Thus begins Swan, a story about passion, compromise, and the exacting world of professional dance.

Swan hits every high school/sports manga beat you might expect: grueling auditions, tender friendships, hard-won moments of glory. But as you encounter these tropes, Swan reminds you why they exist at all. Those awkward conversations with your crush? Those split-second defeats? Those unexpected triumphs? When the creator has put the work in, they land like no other fictional development does. That's why we have so many school stories, tournament arcs, and last-minute-hustle chapters: because when they're done right, as in Swan, they are exhilarating. Swan reminds you why art matters, what it felt like to be a teenager on the precipice of greatness, and the sheer, wild freedom that can be grasped, if only for a moment, through joyful movement. You might not be a teen ballerina training for your role in The Firebird, but Swan knows that at some point, you have wanted something with that intensity. In capturing that passion, it steps onto the stage of manga greatness.

The apocalypse has come and gone in the world of Yokohama Shopping Log... and that's okay. This is the twilight of the Anthropocene, as observed by Alpha, our robotic heroine, and on Japan's Miura Peninsula, people have made their peace. Alpha runs a cafe in this placid place, from which she observes the comings and goings of humanity. Coffee brewing, festival planning, and scientific discussion all have equal weight, especially to her: Alpha is functionally immortal. The people she loves grow, wither, and die, beholden to a landscape that has changed beyond their recognition. But this isn't a tragedy — it's just life.

Yokohama Shopping Log's power isn't merely in its mixture of cataclysm and laid-back life, but in its acceptance of death. It is plainly sad to watch people from Alpha's unchanging point of view, and to see the world we live in crumble around her. Yet Alpha's unique viewpoint doesn't just provide melodrama, but absolution. Nothing is as it was and life might not look like it once did, but so what? Love, jealousy, discovery, and joy still take place in this landscape. The sun continues to rise and set. People might use anti-aircraft missiles, leftover from some conflict or another, as fireworks, but they're still finding reasons to come together and celebrate life. Yokohama Shopping Log looks death in the face and shrugs. Happiness is temporary. The end will always come. Why not live while you can?

Boxing isn't the kind of thing that can be done by halves. Good thing that's exactly how Kosaku likes to live every aspect of his life: he punches hard, eats constantly, and loves with all his heart. Sister Angela, a novice nun, appears to be his opposite, as a creature of sacrifice, humility, and obedience. But as someone unsatisfied with everyday piety, looking instead to devote her entire life to God, Angela isn't actually all that different from Kosaku. It's no wonder they became friends — and no wonder that that friendship blossoms, steadily, into something more.

An early work from Rumiko Takahashi, superstar creator of Inuyasha, Ranma ½, and Urusei Yatsura, One-Pound Gospel is a lot more low-key than the manga she's most famous for. But reading it reveals why her work is so renowned in a unique way: no one is better at telling stories about people being changed by those they love. Kosaku and Angela find, in coming together, that they aren't entirely the people they'd believed themselves to be, and that they contain possibilities they'd never thought to explore. Kosaku might be flighty, but he can love with a granite steadiness. Angela is meticulously poised, but she will risk it all for the sake of what is right. Seeing them grow together isn't just delightful in the Takahashi tradition — it's a journey.

Half a year prior to our story's start, tragedy struck the Inuzuka family when Tae, wife to Kohei and mother to Kindergarten-bound Tsumugi, passed away. Sweetness and Lightning finds the bereaved father and daughter making do, but only just — especially when it comes to food. Fate intervenes in the form of Kotori, who offers to teach the single dad how to properly cook for himself and his child. He's clueless, Tsumugi is hungry, and Kotori's family has a restaurant with a kitchen perfect for practice — how could he say no?

Sweetness and Lightning contains all the elements of total schmaltz: tragic death, precocious children, and unlikely people finding family in each other. Yet its genius is in its light touch. Tsumugi might have a clever line now and again, but she is still the kid who begins each morning yowling for cartoons. Tae's death lies like a shadow across the husband and child she left behind, but they've learned to put one foot in front of the other, one day at a time. The cooking lessons are a perfect example — they're wonderful moments of creativity and joy, but they certainly don't always result in something scrumptious, or even edible. Sweetness and Lightning is about life as it is lived by most of us: steadily, frustratingly, ecstatically, and, in time, with wisdom. And hopefully, with a whole host of delicious, home-cooked meals.

When Western readers think of manga, they picture superheroes in pastel skirts, pointy-haired mutants, and wild-eyed high schoolers with a dream, a destiny, and a giant cursed sword that may or may not be able to talk to them. But what ends up on Anglophone shores isn't necessarily representative of manga as a whole. Consider Short Cuts, a series of short gag strips more like The Far Side than Naruto — and just as off-the-wall funny.

If there is a theme to Short Cuts, it is the kogal, 1990s Japan's iconic Japanese schoolgirl. Her socks are loose, her laughter is loud, and whatever she knows is cool is bound to be something you've never heard of. Short Cuts eviscerates the cultural obsession with her, taking everyone from salarymen to Buddhist monks to task for being fascinated by, essentially, kids doing kid things. But that's not all it skewers. TV shopping channels, capital punishment, giant robot nerds — all of these and more are put on Short Cuts' chopping block. Is it brutal? Oh yeah. Short Cuts doesn't even spare itself, dedicating one particular strip to mocking the creator in a teenager's unsparing voice. But that's what makes it the acerbic treat it is, one joke about proper kneesock bagginess at a time.