The Murakami Train to the Other Side
Befittingly, I picked up Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami at a bookstore in an airport, before boarding a flight. My general association with Murakami was that his novels are read by someone who likes sitting in crowded cafes, with a coffee cup half-emptied, as they completely immerse into a pretty story and go home with a giddy heart after they’re done.
Needless to say, as my reading of Norwegian progressed, I realised Murakami’s stories were the farthest from being heartwarming and wholesome. My five day holiday at the national seaside hotspot — meant to be relaxing and relieving — was rather uprooted by a work oozing with complicated emotions, forceful confrontation of feelings one would rather avoid, topped by a well rounded tear jerker. I would never read a Murakami novel in a cafe. No, it would be far too embarrassing to have people see me cry that much.
“Remove everything pointless from an imperfect life and it’d lose even its imperfection.” — Sputnik Sweetheart.
In his interview with The New Yorker, Murakami states that in writing the narrator of a story, he writes an alternative self: what he could have been. His alternative self is an observer in his own story, where instead of narrating, he’s reading it with you. The characters are put through a plethora of situations, like having to make a choice between two people, extramarital affairs, fish falling from the sky, watching a mirrored version of yourself making love to someone — to name a few. The ineffable is made to be a part of tangible reality, making us want to expand the definitions of what we consider to be reality in the first place. You read your own emotions — the confusion, the anger, the impulses — written in print. Almost like DIY therapy. The line between you, as the reader, and the character only exists in the feeling of the pages on your fingers as you flip them.
Of course, this relatability excludes the Oedipal events and the beheading of cats.
When someone attempts to accurately describe how one feels, they tend to search for convoluted means of expression; hyper-specific imagery, complex words. I find myself struggling with writing this in a way that does justice in putting across just how Murakami’s works push through my brain like a surgical needle.
The author writes simply. His writing comes as effortlessly as human emotions do, fundamental and rooted in the very moment as things happen. Almost always, the narrator is either surrounded by people wrapped in their eccentricity or led by a prophecy unbeknownst to him, that builds the plot and gives us the story we read.
Across his work on Norwegian Wood, Kafka on the Shore and Sputnik Sweetheart, the most common occurrence is how he doesn’t build the narrator. Instead, it’s the narrator who builds the people around him. He talks about people’s unusual habits and characteristics and through him we discover the backstories of other characters, watching events as they unfold. The act of reading ceases and envisioning begins. In his wonderful storytelling method, the depth of the knowledge about a character that the reader gains sounds time-appropriate instead of feeling like it is sucked out and unnecessary. The narrator isn’t demanding of the characters around him, and possesses the quality of unmatched acceptance of people and events as they come, taking everything in his stride.
“Nothing’s going to disappear just because you can’t see what’s going on. In fact, things will be even worse the next time you open your eyes.” — Kafka on the Shore.
In multiple readings of the novels mentioned, I, as a reader, questioned the perception of the narrator. How does the narrator decide what is worth mentioning about a person? How would I react to them if they were real people I talked to on a daily basis?
Going through Murakami’s novels is signing up for a contemplative trip, where introspection is your tour guide. He writes a recurring theme of a strange “other side” in time and space, where the mystic occurrences are rid of their generally agnostic nature, and play a vital role in how the characters are moulded into the people we read them as.
After reading the conclusive words of his stories comes an urge to sink into my surroundings, like being swallowed up by the cold floor, so I can celebrate the oxymoronic extraordinary simplicity of how others live their life. Murakami himself says he believes he’s meant to observe people instead of judging them, and that very belief bleeds into his writing. I find myself envious of the characters who have these weird, surreal things happening to them. Is there perhaps an “other side” I’m missing out on? Could these stories be an “other side” in themselves? In an interdependent cycle of learning to let go of control and experiencing transcendental events, you see how explanations of inexplicable things find you themselves.
“Death exists — in a paperweight, in four red and white balls on a billiard table — and we go on living and breathing it into our lungs like fine dust.” — Norwegian Wood.
Murakami’s endings feel just right. Just like the narrator lets you in his life at a certain point, he cuts you off at another. Everything you read and felt was nothing more than him opening a window and letting you peek, and when the time is up, the window is shut. He has the same questions, fears and confusion that you do, but you’re not a part of everything falling into place. Murakami states he doesn’t write grand endings, and it’s just that. The narrator gets everything he searched for, but it isn’t some gigantic, life-changing conclusion. It’s always been there subconsciously, just waiting around the corner for the narrator to reach it. Perhaps that’s all there is to everything.
Comfort lies in how plain a human’s feelings are, and the essence of his stories are just how far one will go to reach this comfort. The magic that swirls around you when give yourself the freedom to exist as you are and let the world imprint upon you, is what Murakami serves as a meal in his novels. When you see his name on a book cover, pick it up and make it a part of yourself. To think I almost glanced over Norwegian Wood at the airport, is a shame. This is my other side.
