Article written by Rory Hawkins.
Haruki Murakami has been my favourite author of the past couple months. I’ll admit, I’m very late to the punch but that’s not entirely all my fault. Haruki Murakami gained public notoriety in 1987 Japan with the release of his fourth novel, Norwegian Wood (later turned into a 2010 movie of the same name). Whilst his work had been recommended to me through university tutors and lecturers, I’d never given it much thought till I saw his books displayed as ‘modern classics’.
I’ve since finished reading two of them: Kafka on the Shore (his ninth novel) and the aforementioned Norwegian Wood. Though I’ll never claim to be an expert on his writing, I still believe there’s a rich mixture of thought and opinion behind Murakami’s work. The commentary his work offers is steeped in everyday philosophies, always staying grounded in their simplest use and ever relevant.
My first: Kafka on the Shore. Googling the book told me it had won the World Fantasy Award for Novels in 2006 – that would sate any obsessions I still have with the genre. Overall, the internet made Murakami into a vaguely comparable Japanese Neil Gaiman: fantasy elements in a modern setting.
True enough, the “fantastical” in Kafka isn’t full blown tropes. Instead they lend to an offness throughout, nothing ever being truly as it seems, made increasingly clear as you read on. But whilst Gaiman makes explicit use of mythology and folk concepts, Kafka on the Shore’s plot is more abstract.
Teenage runaway “Kafka” Tomura escapes the shadow of his father’s prophecy against him, hiding away from the world in a place seemingly overlooked by it, without any plans for the future. The people he grows closer to are those of a similar, yet a more self-aware mind-set. As the novel progresses there’s a growing sense of the others around him trying to convince him how detrimental such a mentality can be. In this bizarre coming-of-age story, people converse with cats, living spirits go as they please, and concepts pose as commercial icons.
Because of this, Murakami’s writing has often been praised as surreal or dreamlike – I’d go further in saying that it’s only the plot of his books that should be described that way. Such is true for Kafka on the Shore. Whilst the world around his characters can become warped, language stays grounded in what can be seen and heard.
The writing precise style never passes over the most mundane details: clothing, food, buildings etc. Philip Gabriel’s translation is faithful in keeping to this so well. Focus stays on how people try to keep events within their understanding, and so they are at a loss when it comes to the more spiritual.
Unlike typical fantasy novels, you won’t get wound up in the number of characters or made-up names for things. Fantasy elements don’t get explained in great detail. Characters fumble with their own understandings for what goes on but otherwise there’s no final answer. Whilst this might seem shallow, it’s also quite a no-nonsense approach. What’s presented isn’t dressed up as an essay on make-belief or spiritual suggestions. It’s how typical people might try to grapple with the inexplicable.
My second: Norwegian Wood. Finished with Kafka, I wanted to really know how consistent Murakami’s quality and style is. Though still with an element of surrealism (time is used strangely), Norwegian Wood is sequenced very differently. Rather than cutting between a central protagonist and those around them between chapters, Norwegian Wood focuses solely on one character: this time, university student Toru Watanabe.
Without the supernatural themes of Kafka, this novel shows the detail Murakami’s writing can surround a character’s perspective and how they develop as the story goes on. After childhood trauma, Toru leaves his hometown for university in Tokyo. Despite trying to move on with his life, he strikes up a friendship with a girl from his past: Naoko. As the two become closer, Toru learns of Naoko’s dire mental health. Around the same time, he meets the outgoing but crass Midori.
It’s cliché to say he’s torn between these two women. Rather, it’s more the spectrum of personality between them: engaging/disengaging with reality and selflessness/selfishness. Naoko retreats from the world, unable to want for things without feeling guilty. The only act she can stomach is asking Toru to not worry about her.
On the other hand, Midori, is extraverted and demanding; though good at seeing things for what they are, it becomes increasingly apparent she has her own problems. She is very set in her own needs, seeing it as owed to her for making up lost time. A few supporting characters do well to point out the pros and cons of taking advantage in life or actively choosing not to.
Toru wavers between the two attitudes – though neither of these polar extremes is particularly healthy. It’s the self-reflection found within disengagement and the action in selfishness that balances out a person.
Calling Norwegian Wood a romance novel would easily downplay the rest of the novel’s potential as anything more. The protagonist isn’t caught up in what it is to really love someone so much as what he considers right in the world around him. Again, Murakami weaves a somewhat unconventional coming-of-age story.
Though the two novels are attempts at different ideas, after reading them, there’s a number of Murakami-isms that jump out at me – either nuances that come from his particular style or inspirations taken from one to another. Both the protagonists are guys, yes, but they both live in self-isolation.
To a greater extent, many of the characters in these novels are those neglected by society who in turn neglect the people they still have around them. It’s exactly these types of characters that allow a writer to twist reality to a different perspective. Whether or not this is a personal commentary on the male psyche would be up for debate – though his newly published short story collection Men Without Women says otherwise. I’m sure Murakami would offer a pragmatic joke along the lines of a Japanese man writing about being a Japanese man is more convincing than him writing about being an Indian woman.
Another theme that became a clear point of reference between the two books: the Japanese student protests of the early 60s. In response to a number of social movements including anti-Vietnam involvement, Japan’s sovereignty and rising student fees, left-leaning political parties within and without universities rallied to protest the establishment.
The student movement resulted in university disruptions across the nation, severity ranging from simple protests to barricading university properties to violence. Both novels touch on this in different ways. Norwegian Wood portrays members of the movement as immature and pretentious, without real motive. Kafka touches more on the absurdity of group mentality. Both echo a dislike for would-be revolutionaries who haven’t thought everything through.
Setting fictional people to a world of real insecurity does well to make them all the more convincing. It even harkens to now – student and university movements trying to spearhead change in the United States, and to a lesser extent here in Australia.
Giving a little time to think over what you’ve read lets the subtler thoughts in Murakami’s work rise to the surface. There’s an absolute wealth behind the thinking in his stories. To pin them down in explanation (“guy runs away and lives in a library”) does the novels little justice.
How it goes about explaining its philosophy is often implicit, like it’s avoiding taking such an obvious tone. Anything heavy-hitting is broken down through a character’s own speech or the novel’s own plot. You might feel a little lectured on the arts and 60s pop culture, but never on the meaning of life.
And when you’re not wrapping your head around characters’ predicaments, get ready for a wickedly dry sense of humour and sex scenes to lay a person bare.
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