Well, this book deserves a longer review than I'm going to give it. Perhaps I'll make the effort in the Dreamtime and so it will be done, if not written. 
Murakami gives us a world of mystery, ultimately the mystery of the self and of the many interactions we make with the world based on our interpretations of what it may want from us and what we want to give it all while figuring ourselves out (or not) day by day. He creates a platter of characters some of whom have purpose none of whom quite understand it and it becomes a delicious marvel.
For me to have been gorged with the plot driven and the diet of the autodidact, this was something of an adjustment. But the characters were so lovely that the entire snack expanded in my stomach filling me up and causing me to belch up flavors that are surprisingly fragrant. In all the time reading it, jumping in and jumping out as I have over the past month, there was no telling where the lightning storms, missing persons, talking cats and animated American mascots were going to end up. There were so many lovely references to music and literature and language - so much plain talk and simple actions swooping gracefully through a web of curious reflection and occasional profundity and confusion - so much to taste and consider. It has a quiet and subtle majesty. I found myself thinking so many times how this clearly Japanese author had such a facility with the English tongue. I can read about him now, but I just wanted to read more of the story.
Murakami's book has a gentle absurdity that never becomes hateful. Even the bloody murders seem to evoke the lightest kind of obligation, the kind that is never questioned from characters who are incapable of stepping outside of themselves and offering special opprobrium. What is taken must be replaced. What is opened must be closed. Over generations if it must be. Time is not so important here, but what is unspoken remains inevitably true. All theory is followed lightly, logically and we live in the margins of certainty until we don't.
Ah Nakata. You are our simple selves. We knew you when we saw you, but never before, only knowing someone was out there to know. Now we know.
Murakami gives us a world of mystery, ultimately the mystery of the self and of the many interactions we make with the world based on our interpretations of what it may want from us and what we want to give it all while figuring ourselves out (or not) day by day. He creates a platter of characters some of whom have purpose none of whom quite understand it and it becomes a delicious marvel.
For me to have been gorged with the plot driven and the diet of the autodidact, this was something of an adjustment. But the characters were so lovely that the entire snack expanded in my stomach filling me up and causing me to belch up flavors that are surprisingly fragrant. In all the time reading it, jumping in and jumping out as I have over the past month, there was no telling where the lightning storms, missing persons, talking cats and animated American mascots were going to end up. There were so many lovely references to music and literature and language - so much plain talk and simple actions swooping gracefully through a web of curious reflection and occasional profundity and confusion - so much to taste and consider. It has a quiet and subtle majesty. I found myself thinking so many times how this clearly Japanese author had such a facility with the English tongue. I can read about him now, but I just wanted to read more of the story.
Murakami's book has a gentle absurdity that never becomes hateful. Even the bloody murders seem to evoke the lightest kind of obligation, the kind that is never questioned from characters who are incapable of stepping outside of themselves and offering special opprobrium. What is taken must be replaced. What is opened must be closed. Over generations if it must be. Time is not so important here, but what is unspoken remains inevitably true. All theory is followed lightly, logically and we live in the margins of certainty until we don't.
Ah Nakata. You are our simple selves. We knew you when we saw you, but never before, only knowing someone was out there to know. Now we know.
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