Author: gege

So I have decided to be a Murakami fan. And this book made me do it. Not because it’s the best one I’ve read of his thus far, even though it is. But because Murakami’s voice is becoming a familiar one, and I’m liking it. Of course, a big part of that voice is that of translator Jay Rubin. And then there are the voices of his characters, each one distinct and to me quite endearing.

Toru Watanabe narrates in a voice reflective of Nick Carraway’s in The Great Gatsby, Toru’s favorite book. His is a voice that tries to subdue itself as the other characters assert themselves, loudly, emotionally. Just a few steps away from being a fly in the wall, he observes life around him and lets the other characters move him. He moves as the seemingly sane and stable character in a sea of broken souls.

I fell in love with the most broken among them, Naoko. Naoko and her beautiful sadness. And her hair slide. And her troubled past. And her attempts to set her life right in an asylum where the objective is not just to “correct the deformation” in their characters but to recognize and accept them, and still continue to live. “That’s what distinguishes us from the outside world: most people go about their lives unconscious of their deformities, while in this little world of ours the deformities are a precondition. Just as Indians wear feathers on their heads to show what tribe they belong to, we wear our deformities in the open. And we live quietly so as not to hurt one another.” She makes me think about my deformities, those I acknowledge and those I hide.

Like Toru, I was also torn between Naoko and Midori. Midori, the light against Naoko’s dark spirit, the one who represents hope amid and despite a life filled with death and pain. Lively, wild, offbeat, her voice is a necessary one in a novel that would otherwise be too dismal for enjoyment. Her quirky language, her micro-minis, her bizarre dreams, her even stranger daydreams and fantasies, all lovable.

And then there’s Reiko, the one who should have had the life of a successful pianist. Instead, she lives her days in an asylum to escape the outside world, a world which has battered her soul. Her voice is the most musical of all in a novel that’s typical Murakami, heavily spiked with music. Reiko plays her guitar for her healing as much as for the healing of others around her. The Beatles’ Norwegian Wood is among her repertoire.

There are other voices as well. The voice of Japanese youth in the 60s. Nagasawa’s (Toru’s college buddy and sexcapades mentor), charismatic, intelligent. The world is his for the taking, and he takes all that he possibly can. Kizuki’s (Toru’s childhood best friend and Naoko’s boyfriend) voice from the dead, that continues to haunt and affect Toru’s and Naoko’s life.

But Toru speaks back to Hizuki: Hey there, Kizuki. Unlike you I’ve chosen to live – and to live the best I know how. Sure, it was hard for you. What the hell, it’s hard for me. Really hard. And all because you killed yourself and left Naoko behind. But that’s something I will never do. I will never, ever, turn my back on her. First of all, because I love her, and because I’m stronger than she is. And I’m just going on getting stronger. I’m going to mature. I’m going to be an adult. Because that’s what I have to do… I have to pay the price to go on living.

These voices haunt me even weeks after the reading. And I’ve got Murakami to blame for it.

Japanese litfest continues.

3 novellas comprise Yoko Ogawa’s The Diving Pool.

The first novella, with the same title as the book, is narrated by Aya. She is the daughter of a couple running an orphanage. Ironically, she feels the least privileged among the orphans living under their roof. They, at least, have the chance of being adopted and moving away. It’s from that dreary perspective that Aya sees her world.

The only bright spot in her life is Jun, an orphan in their home. He dives to compete, but to Aya, he dives so she can watch his graceful body cut through air, water, time, and her emotions “to reach the deepest place inside of her.” Stealthily, Aya watches him dive, admiring the grace of his motions, the line of his muscle, the alignment of his wrists. Ogawa narrates with a focus on the minutiae, on the languid but not innocent thoughts that run through Aya’s head.

The other novellas are told with the same languor. Drama kept at a minimum. Emotions not over emphasized; merely suggested. The narration of events calm. Yet, the reader’s reactions would be anything but. Because what the novellas have in common is the theme that danger lurks underneath a surface of tranquility, evil behind a facade of normalcy.

The second novella, Pregnancy Diary, merely hints at the diabolical. And it is the most sinister of the three stories. In the end, you’re left to using your own imagination, which is probably more frightening than anything the story could narrate.

The third novella, Dormitory, is the one most likely to become an episode of Twilight Zone if that show were to be revived. Again, the ending does not spell everything out for you. You’re left imagining the worst.

The Diving Pool is a light, easy read of themes that are heavy, disturbing, haunting. Not quite satisfying, because I’m left wanting more.

Another Japanese authored book. There are two more posts on the way. Our book club, Flips Flipping Pages, discussed Japanese literature last March. And we had the liberty to choose any title for as long as it fell under the broad category of Japanese literature. I read 2 books before the discussion, and followed up my JapLit education with 2 more.

Thus far, the one thing I found that all these books had in common is: cats. Cats figure prominently in every piece of Japanese literature I have read. The last one I read, Norwegian Wood, almost did not meet this criteria. Then, near the end a cat named Seagull entered the picture. In A Pale View of Hills, the loathsome creatures play a central role, symbolizing dispensable relationships and responsibilities. People who know me know that I hate cats – the animal as well as the topic. So, let’s move on.

I also noticed that Japanese authors like to tell their stories the way they serve their tea. Slowly, lyrically, patiently. Maybe a bit mysteriously. Testing your ability to sit still, an underdeveloped skill in this time when people and events move in the speed of light just to catch up. Storytelling that forces you to slow down, linger, hold your breath, and wait for something to happen. A Pale View of Hills is self-indulgent narration. By that I mean, the author asks you to indulge him, to patiently read through the long meandering thoughts, and you just hope that somehow, somewhere, some time in the novel, there is a point. Halfway through the book, I still had no idea what this was all about. You just simply make a decision to drop the book or just enjoy the narration and hope that it would be worth it.

It’s a bit like walking through the forest; trees, shadows, and mist obscure the path, and you’re not certain if it’s going somewhere…ah wait, I’m doing that right now, am I not? I am waxing Ishiguroesque. Ah, I am so easily influenced by the things I read. Anyway, let’s get on with it.

A Pale View of Hills is about Etsuko. Transplanted to London, recent events have made her recall a summer after the war, right back when she was in Japan. She was newly married, pregnant with her first child, and like her fellow Japanese, trying to rebuild a life.

Two sub-plots develop, One concerns her neighbor, Sachiko, a single mother obsessed, but not quite upfront, with the idea of finding greener pastures in another land. Kazuo’s Ishiguro’s use of dialogue hints without telling that this is a woman you can’t trust.

Sachiko’s story is interspersed with a seemingly unrelated story — the conflict between Etsuko’s husband and her father in law.

These 2 stories move in parallel lines, and how they come together and affect Etsuko’s present eventually emerges at the end in a surprise twist that reveals how her past shaped her present. History repeats itself. The generation gap between Etsuko’s husband and his father is echoed in the strained relationship between Etsuko and her daughter, Niki. This time, culture differences, as well as a generation gap, test their kinship.

After all that, yes, there is a point. But you do have to slow down to enjoy the telling. Kazuo’s gift for description, characterization, and narration makes the slow meandering journey through the pale hills worth it.

In the Introduction, Murakami likens the writing of short stories to planting gardens and writing novels to planting forests. In this book, he planted a lush, colorful collection of stories written from 1981 to 2005. The book is like Leonardo Da Vinci’s notebook, containing studies for bigger works, studies that are complete art by themselves. One story, Firefly, is a study that he eventually developed into the novel, Norwegian Wood, the work that brought Murakami into the nova of international bestseller authors.

One gets the feeling that a lot of the stories are autobiographical. In Chance Traveler, for instance, he specifically names himself as the narrator and places himself in the story.

I’m not fond of short stories. Most of the time, they’re weird, vague, ending abruptly leaving me scratching my head muttering, what the fafaya was that about?!? (Interrobang intended.) And then there’s Haruki Murakami, known for his delving in the bizarre and surreal.

The combination of short stories and Murakami really intimidated me.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman is very low on the weirdometer; not intimidating at all. And the biggest surprise is that most of the stories have very neat, complete plots, with dénouements not usually seen in short stories. Some are so well developed, they seem more like novellas than short stories.

Wiki describes Murakami’s work as “accessible yet profoundly complex.” With this book as basis, I have to agree. His prose is easily understandable, the narrative simple and fluid, and the themes universal. Though some stories have a touch of the bizarre and most exhibit Murakami’s style of magical realism, they are stories that are easy to relate to. Because underneath the fantastic plots are emotional themes most people can identify with.

The one that resonated with me best was the story of Tony Takitani, whose wife was obsessed with the accumulation of clothes. In my case, my obsession is amassing books. I’ll spare you the spoilers so I won’t say much about it except that it shows Murakami’s dry humor as well as his splendid way of taking what’s ordinary to weave extraordinary tales.

A Poor Aunt Story is more fantastic but still very easy to grasp, which is not to say that it is simplistic or dumbed down. The narrator in the story suddenly finds himself bearing on his shoulder a poor aunt that just won’t go away. It’s great how this metaphor can be interpreted in different ways by different readers. The shoulder-borne aunt may represent limiting mindsets, bad habits, debilitating fears, and counterproductive behavior. Or whatever you think it is.

So relatable are the stories that if you take away the Japanese names of people and places, these stories could happen to anyone anywhere in the world. Anyone who suffers loss, experiences love, and wonders at life. Maybe because of it being so universal, what is missing is the “Japaneseness” of it. If you look closer though, the issues can be those which are prevalent in Japan. Suicide, for instance.

Expectedly, the stories show Murakami’s obsession with death, particularly suicide. A character says, “Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it.” Even then, death is not trivialized; his characters ponder much on the loss of life and the sorrow that comes with it.

Before this, the only Murakami piece I’ve read was Kafka on the Shore, which wowed me with the writing but freaked me out with the oedipal theme. After reading this, I have not yet decided if I should become a fan. This might not be the book to convert me into a Murakamite. It is not iconic like Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, or Kafka on the Shore. It is rarely listed among his notable works. But if this well written book is not one of his best, then I would certainly like to read the rest of Murakami’s works.

…maybe even more. I came from the ninja party of book lusters. I was so drunk with books I wasn’t sure. And it’s all because I’m a member of www.bookmooch.com. I’ll let one of the bookmoochratis explain what all this is about.

Blooey tells you the story of how a bunch of Filipino bibliophiles revived the surface mail industry. It’s an exciting story that involves worldwide treasure hunts, destroyed canvas bags, and a subpoena for a hapless customs officer.

And me, I’m just on the fringes of this story. 14 books is a slow day for Blooey and her ilk.

My memory is playing tricks on me. Sometimes it tells me that I haven’t yet read a particular book, and then I read it thinking for the first time, and everything just seems so familiar. Or sometimes I think I have read a book, but when I try to recall the plot, I haven’t a clue. Pride and Prejudice is an example of the former; Carol Shields’ Stone Diaries, of the latter.

And then there is this — Erich Segal’s Love Story. I don’t know if it belongs to the former or the latter category. I must have read it. Everybody did. But I can’t tell for sure.

Most of the people in my book group have read it so they were able to compare the feeling of reading it in their youth to the feeling of reading it now.

Reading it produced the strangest situation of everything being familiar. Why not? Love Story is a composite of tried and tested formulas for love stories. Rich boy meets poor girl. With all too familiar elements that spice up novels and movies — opposing parents, a sense of you and I against the world, love against all odds, tragedy, and other love story clichés. That was intentional, according to our book club moderator. Erich Segal, literature professor, really wanted to use all those elements to, I guess, prove a point. And he wrote a movie that was so well loved; it could now be considered a classic. And the book that followed the movie sold millions.

The most fluid and clearest of writing makes this a very easy read. Segal is a talented and disciplined writer. The dialog is witty and just a smidge cheesy. You don’t want to, but you find yourself saying awww. It’s good. Yes, a “but” is about to follow. But I am a very selfish reader. Good writing is not enough. Plot and characters are important, but ultimately it is about the book striking a chord, serving as a mirror to my own life and thoughts. Yes, there has to be something about me somewhere. Stop rolling your eyes; I admitted I’m self-absorbed. And Love Story, to me, is just a story.

I guess what I’m saying is that I’m too old and jaded to appreciate Love Story. Not that I’m too old to appreciate falling in love, but this story really just skims the surface of love and relationships and marriage and family. My own relationships are way more complex, certainly not as pretty or novel-worthy, but they carry the scars of deeper hurts, uglier sins, graver losses. The wit and the kilig (romantic thrill) of the novel are nothing compared to the joys of real-life love. Death, cancer, and the premature end of a marriage are not things to be blasé about, but these have become all too common. So many movies and books have come after Love Story, employing the same basic plot but with more dramatic twists. More real-life dramas have hit closer to home. Love Story is a nice read. And, well, that’s it.