. Spinning .

My general gut feeling remains the same on this.  I feel that the story is wonderful, but would have liked to see better handling of that story. 

Now I’m sure that Murakami fans think I’m off the wall on this, but I just feel a bit disappointed by the ending that was presented almost as the end of a fantasy fic novel, leaving some of the more intriguing questions raised either answered by a preachy-form of character (Oshima) opinion:

"Every one of us is losing something precious to us," he says after the phone stops ringing.  "Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again.  That’s part of what it means o be alive.  But inside our heads–at least that’s where I imagine it–there’s a little room where we store those memories."  (p. 463)

Sort of anticlimactic, I thought.  And this wisdom is from a twenty-one year-old who admittedly is quite together despite some complex gender association.  But it’s nothing particularly deep, and the boy Kafka has been through so much and yet merely makes up his mind to go back home and finish school.

But there was enough here for me to explore Murakami’s work further and I will indeed soon order The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle to see what else Murakami has to offer.

Just finished this and my first comment would be that I’m surprised it didn’t take me long to read through 465 pages.

My second comment might be that my immediate response is a bit of a letdown.  It seems that the weirdness continues, but in a way that reminds me more of horror stories or fantasy fiction rather than a more metaphorical discovery.  This, despite the repeated statements by Oshima that "the world is a metaphor."  Maybe I’ve just come to rely too much on Murakami to tell me what was going on, since it was pretty well hidden and he seemed to have all the answers ready to give.

And yet, I don’t feel the novel is complete.  There’s a happy ending which frankly, I wouldn’t have expected and so maybe that’s where the twist comes in.  The writing was good–obviously, if I read it so quickly–yet for the first 200 pages the story was rather normal, then it got me all excited when Murakami went weird on me, and then I just read along. seemingly watching for the telltale signs of clues as the two characters’ lives began to touch.

As far as the main characters, while I fell in love with the old man, Nakata, the boy Kafka was basically your rich kid who runs away to escape a dysfuntional family and perhaps seek his mother and sister.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t impressed with the kid–oh, he’s very nice and all that–because everything just plopped right in his lap.  I doubt that he had to touch the three grand he stole from his father to buy anything for himself.  There was always somebody ready and willing to help him.  These became the heroes for me.

I have to think some more on the whole labyrinth, netherworld idea, and the possibility that in dreams there is a way of having out of body experiences that Murakami seems to want us to consider as a possiblity.  There’s just too much neatly tied up as the threads unravel, and yet no real answer that I felt appear as an impetus to delve deeper.

More later.

As I’m coming towards the end of this story (should be finished tomorrow) little things are starting to bother me.  What’s the good of surrealism if it seems contrived?

As the characters progress on their journeys–which by the way, they seem to take for granted–too much is tied in to try to make it appear to make sense.  For me, the magic of magical realism is that it needn’t make any sense at all.

There’s also an overload of philosophical discussion about life, how to behave within it, how dreams and reality are intertwined, how we are part of the whole and the whole is a part of us, but not left simply to metaphor.  One or the other of the characters has to present it as a piece of advice to another character, or we’re inside somebody’s head as he ponders it to himself.

Murakami throws out some great theories, and then proceeds to expound upon them.  I feel it is presented more in lecture form than a question offered up to the reader.

Nor do we need to know every meal the characters eat.

Back in the apartment, a soothing fragance filled the place.  Nakata was bustling around the kitchen preparing some steamed daikon and deep-fried flat tofu. (p. 356)

At six Nakata made dinner–grilled salmon and a salad, plus a number of little side dishes he’d concocted. (p. 358)

They breakfasted on rise, miso soup with eggplant, dried mackerel, and pickles. Hoshino had a second helping of rice.  (p. 359)

At noon they stopped by a diner and had curry. (p. 361)

At three they went into a coffee shop, where Hoshino had a cup of coffee.  Nakata puzzled over his order, finally going with the iced milk. (p. 362)

At noon they stopped by a restaurant specializing in eel and ordered the lunch special, a bowl of rice topped with eel.  At three they went to a coffee shop, where Hoshino had coffee, Nakata kelp tea. (p. 364)

Notice the page numbers. Now Nakata and Hoshino are on a mission and they’re driving around for a couple days in search of something, but Murakami even throws in when these guys go to the bathroom.  Oddly enough, that’s always been one of the things folks began to notice in novels and tv shows and movies:  Nobody goes to the bathroom.

Me, I’ve always been bugged by the family sitting down to dinner and crowding around only one side of the table so that no one’s back is to the camera.

I’m a firm believer in knowing the rules inside-out before you attempt to break them.  I’m also a believer that most of the best literary classics are based on broken rules.

But I’m having a bit of a hard time accepting Murakami’s highly detailed descriptions of the mundane, whereas I would have taken an editorial red pencil to a lot of extraneous writing:

He’s wearing a pair of Armani-type sunglasses, and a striped linen shirt over a white V-neck T-shirt, white jeans, and navy blue, low-cut Converse All-Stars.  Casual day-off clothes. (p. 331)

Now I don’t have a problem with the way these words are strung together, nor with Kafka’s describing what Oshima is wearing this day.  The problem is that we get a similar rundown on both Oshima’s togs and Miss Saeki’s every day. 

This book is 461 pages long.  Between the explanations Murakami gives through the characters for what’s going on, the descriptions such as above (even to the point of washing out underwear), there’s a  lot that could have been more concisely edited I would think.

On Murakami’s purpose, I might think that the mundane routine might be a sense of grounding that more easily contrasts with the surreal he introduces into the stories and thus provides more impact.  He also, I would add, provides easy sentence structure and phraseology that is quick-paced and enjoyable enough though not particularly linguistically outstanding or poetic. 

I wonder too if the fact that this is of course a translation has much to do with it.  I know no Japanese so I do not know how it translates–with ease or with difficulty–into English.  When you’re reading for writing style, I’m finding that you cannot be as opinionated with your consideration of the author’s style when you’re reading it in a language other than its original written version.

Maybe I’m just slow at catching drifts, or maybe I’m just the caboose on a train going on the wrong track, but I’m being pounded with a sense of duality in this novel.

Obviously, the two stories, the two characters, the half shadows, the double natures of lives and time, the each of us half seeking our other half, Oshima’s complex gender, Miss Saeki’s youth and middle-age, dreams and wakefulness, all that; this is a novel about the two sides of everything.  But what tipped me off to the importance of this is the repeated description of Nakata’s salt and pepper hair.

Now Nakata is wondering about himself, and what sort of Nakata he would have been had the occurrence on that hill as a young student on a field trip not changed him.

Paths, discussing metaphor, seeking something unknown, feeling a need to move towards something while leaving behind something or even running from it; there’s something to all this and I’m seeing it as the larger riddle of ourselves as we attempt to separate our minds from our bodies to understand the difference between the two that are still inextricably one.

Like I said; maybe I’m just taking one of those trips to no answerland that I tend to enjoy.

All right, so everything’s not as it appears to be, or maybe it is and suspension of disbelief is all it takes to appreciate this novel.  But Kentucky Fried Pimp?

Now I’ve never had a problem with believing what I read; that is, taking as the truth the story and events as the author has presented them.  With Paz’s My Life With the Wave, I never doubted that the man brought home a loving wash of seawater.  What bothers me in fiction (and of course, supposed non-fiction) is the little details that don’t ring true.  But that’s the way I am in life as well; I handle crisis with a calm and effective way.  The little things that pester like mosquitos will turn me manic in a matter of time.

So okay, it’s Colonel Sanders.  And from him we get some learning:

"You still don’t get it, do you?  We’re talking about a revelation here," Colonel Sanders said, clicking his tongue.  "A revelation leaps over the borders of the everyday.  A life without revelation is no life at all.  What you need to do is move from reason that observes to reason that acts.  That’s what’s critical.  Do you have any idea what I’m talking about, you gold-plated whale of a dunce?"  (p. 275)

Up until now, Kafka’s new friend at the library, Oshima, has been the wise and thoughtful one, giving the youth as well as the reader some thoughts to ponder.  But these tidbits are maybe just favorites of Murakami, his thoughts on life that he infuses his writings with to get them out and into other people’s heads.  It’s not a preachy thing, and yet it’s given placement that, coming from characters like Johnnie Walker and Colonel Sanders, one seems to want to give some import.

Then Murakami subtley disappoints:

As Miss Saeki went around interviewing people for her book, maybe she met my father.  It’s entirely possible.  There can’t be that many people around who’ve been struck by lightning and lived, can there?

I breathe very quietly, waiting for the dawn.  A cloud parts, and moonlight shines down on the trees in the garden.  There are just too many coincidences.  Everything seems to be speeding up, rushing toward one destination.  (p. 253)

There are a few passages such as the above, where Murkami appears to have the narrator do the thinking that ordinarily is left to the reader.  Murakami, I’m thinking, even while throwing in some danged wonderfully enticing thought-provokers such as the intrigueing  characters and events, likes to maintain control.  In several cases he has spent a couple pages on backstory.  This, halfway through the book when we’ve come up with what we felt were rather good ideas of our own.

It’s almost like telling the reader he’s wrong; no, this is what happened, not what you’re thinking.

Murakami is a master storyteller, laying out threads macramed into a pattern.  But the design is almost too elaborately deliberate. As our young Kafka says, "There are just too many coincidences."

As I said, up to these last few chapters life was rather tranquil for both Kafka and Nakata.  Then McCarthy stepped in with blood and guts and now, Marquez.  Raining fish and leaches.  Two of my favorite authors though, so for me, the novel has taken a hold of my heart.

There is the thread of relationships here, and the understanding and acceptance of people as they are regardless of what they appear to be. So that the characters themselves may be the metaphors. 

A connection between these two characters’ stories has been made, though not in a simple straightforward meeting.

The man who Nakata believes he has killed may in fact be Kafka’s father, though Kafka wonders if he himself didn’t manage it since it was the night he woke from unconsciousness, his shirt covered in blood.

I’m finding great new things to like about Murakami.  Who else would suddenly open the sky and rain down sardines with the occasional mackeral?  Marquez used yellow flowers.

One of the things I hate the most is being laughed at for being dumb, but I can’t help but laugh along with those of you who’ve read Murakami and have noted my comments so far about his unmetaphorical writing style.

Johnnie Walker killing cats and saving their heads in a freezer?

No, I haven’t come to any real conclusions about it yet, but I’m beginning to see the depth in Murakami’s novel that I pleasantly passed over until now.  There’s wonderful story here, but there’s more, much more.

Hoo-boy.  Murakami has just presented us with McCarthy’s Judge (Blood Meridian) in the form of a man who dresses like and calls himself Johnnie Walker and who claims he must kill cats.  A philosopher, a man who forces one to look at himself–in this case, Nakata–and pushes one to go beyond one’s worst imaginable capabilities just to prove the evil residing within us all.

"…But listen to me–there are times in life when those kinds of excuses don’t cut it anymore.  Situations when nobody cares whether you’re suited for the task at hand or not.  I need you to understand that.  For instance, it happens in war.  Do you know what war is?" 

"Yes, I do.  There was a big war going on when Nakata was born.  I heard about it."

"When a war starts people are forced to become soldiers.  They carry guns and go to the front lines and have to kill soldiers on the other side.  As many as they possibly can.  Nobody cares whether you like killing people or not.  It’s just something you have to do.  Otherwise you’re the one who gets killed."  Johnnie Walker pointed his index finger at Nakata’s chest.  "Bang!" he said.  "Human history in a nutshell."  (p. 142)

Murakami has eased us into this scenario–a lot stranger and bloodier than what I’ll give away here–that places us in a very uncomfortable position.  I squirm a bit as I read, and even McCarthy didn’t quite make me do that.  I think the fact that even as the action and pace steps up, we were lulled into two still comfortable worlds where we thought we knew some things were hiding beneath the surface, but didn’t expect to open the door into hell with the flip of a page. 

But it doesn’t make sense…

The dog’s eyes were as glazed and lifeless as glass beads congealed from swamp water. (p. 122)

Now I like Murakami for his simple writing style and great story, but I love metaphor and simile and when I come across a good one, I melt like chocolate on a sunny dashboard. I get the picture Murakami is drawing here, swamp water would be murky yet translucent.  But lifeless?  Swamps are notorious for being chockfull of life.  Why there are more living things in one drop of swampwater than there is likely to be in a square inch of fresh air.

I’m perhaps a bit overwrought lately and thus not as forgiving and generally all-around nice as I normally can (and hope I can remember to) be.

Ah, my world is riddled with mystery lately.  Here’s some from Murakami:

Okawa glanced at the photo and made a gloomy face.  Frown lines appeared between his eyebrows and he blinked in consternation several times.  "I’m grateful for the sardine [Okawa is a cat] don’t get me wrong.  But I can’t talk about that. I’ll be in hot water if I do."  (p. 121)

The dual story lines parallel each other as to mood it seems.  Just as Kafka is hiding away since he woke from unconsciousness with blood stains on his shirt, here Nakata in his search for the missing cat Goma is running into what looks like something deeper than just a runaway cat.

Murakami does a great job of storytelling.  Either story could likely stand on its own but in alternating chapters between them, with the different style of each, one enhances the other as we catch certain points of relativity.  The unconsciousness, the sense of aloneness each character feels, their backgrounds, their reaching out in communication to something other than another human being (Kafka’s mental Crow, Nakata’s speaking with cats) are similar and we are eagerly expecting perhaps a meeting of these two. 

If this text were hyperlinked, all these connections would perhaps be shown up for what they are.  Therefore, the question is raised of whether hypertext in fact does make life easier for the reader–showing rather than allowing the reader to make this connections himself.

There has really been no language style that Murakami uses that has had me race to the computer in admiration; his style is pretty straightforward writing without metaphor, simile or particular beauty of words.

I think where he excells perhaps is with story first, and then with drawing his characters:

I try putting into words my impressions of the novel, but I need Crow’s help–need him to show up from wherever he is, spread his wings wide, and search out the right words for me. (p. 106)

This is the boy Kafka talking with a young man who works at the library who has befriended him.  Murakami is now more clearly showing us that the boy called Crow is a part of Kafka, perhaps an alter ego that allows him to overcome his shyness in speaking with other people.  Crow is the one in the opening scene who Kafka was telling of his plans to run away.  Crow is the one who told him that he’d have to be the toughest teenager on the planet to carry them through.  With the implied isolation of Kafka’s childhood, it seems reasonable that he would form this friend, this helper to allow him to cope with the abandonment by his mother and sister, the disassociation of his father, and the reticence in forming relationships with others his age.

Each minor character is given a description of sorts that allows the reader to picture them and get a feel of how they are reacting to Kafka.

Perhaps this blunt not prosaic language is a way of helping the reader get into the story just by its very common reality.  And from there, Murakami brings us talking cats.

As I’ve said, every other chapter alternates between the two stories, that of Kafka and of Nakata.  Nakata’s story is told by a series of difference techniques and timelines that defy linear sequencing in that while they start out as an investigative report on the incident of the children collapsing (including Nakata) on the hill during the war, it then appears to come up to Nakata’s present, then back to the report, and the latest chapter (12) midway between.  This is also told in the form of the teacher’s letter to a psychologist who investigated the incident back in 1946. 

Murakami is also one to answer the questions he raises by a form of telling using this technique.  I’m not sure whether some of these answers are to the purpose of dispelling or relieving the tension of the mysteries presented, or whether it is indeed to bring us to the realization of the approaching tie-in with the two main characters.  In this chapter, the teacher’s explanation of events includes her assessment of Nakata and his rather wealthy background and repressed sense of violence.  What I don’t comprehend–though I need not, but rather accept what’s being given to me–is the teacher’s own violence towards Nakata on the day, just prior to the collapse of the children.

Interesting characters, presented in an interesting way.