Mundane, Minimalist Murakami
It has been a while since I read a book I didn’t like. I like to think I am good at choosing books to read, relying on reputable authors, my dad’s opinion, and the test of time. I picked up Norwegian Wood, it having checked at least two of the boxes (my dad read it too long ago to have an opinion), and broke my streak. My habit of choosing well, I realized, had an element I failed to realize before: good literature should bridge divides of culture, time, and varying degrees of mental health, from Nagasawa’s energy to Naoko’s misery. Norwegian Wood’s lethargy, whether due to a cultural divide or a universal shortcoming, failed to speak to an audience who values clarity and who, fortunately, is not suicidal. In other words, it didn’t speak to me. Or at least not while I was reading it. But with some distance, ironically, I came to appreciate what I originally thought of as the book’s shortcomings. But I’ll start with slander:
Before I sound like a total curmudgeon, I would like to acknowledge that my interpretation of the book is subjective. As much as the phrase “lived experience” churns up the most visceral feeling of disgust for me, so too did the first fifty pages of Norwegian Wood. The source of repulsion is ironic: the narrator, Toru, is disturbingly opinionated.
Toru’s inner dialogue centers upon his inability to express himself. My copy was from the library, so I will have to spare you direct quotes, but the text repeated itself enough times to summarize Toru’s thoughts in the following nutshell: he has this bad feeling in his chest and would really love to tell us about it but can’t. His lack of emotional intelligence made him hard to trust. It’s fiction--they’re supposed to know how they feel! Having been reading My Brilliant Friend at the same time, I much preferred Elena Greco’s lucid descriptions of the fear she felt walking through Naples to Toru Watanabe’s ambivalence.
Toru’s love interest is equally impenetrable. I know all about her pubic hair but nothing of her emotional state. It’s true--a suicidal person is not always the one shooting up her hand to express herself. But with only unrealistic (bizarre, even) dialogue and strange sex scenes to reveal her psychological state, I had a hard time empathizing with Naoko. Rather, her depression is just pitiful. Meanwhile, Murakami sets us on a quest, along with Toru, to understand the inner world of this sad, closed woman. The refrain, “I wish I could tell you how I feel but if I try to describe it, it won’t come out right” did not suffice as character development.
Seeking a recovery from the prolonged frustration of reading Norwegian Wood, I talked to a friend about the book. She pointed out that my critiques might pertain to the English translation, not Murakami. Japanese, she said, emphasizes the unsaid. The way in which Murakami describes feelings primarily through allusions, absurdity, and ambivalence resonates more with a Japanese audience, more literate in messages nestled between the lines.
She’s right--one can never fully assess a book’s author having only read his translated works. But the meaning that my friend described as lost in translation might not have been there in the first place. An ostensible lack of significance indicates the mundane--a neighbor of the word “boring” that describes much of life.
Murakami spends time ruminating on daily routines of taking public transportation, writing letters, meeting people, and eating. Many authors credit these activities with a disproportionate amount of meaning. Letters, in Stephen Chbosky’s The Perks of Being a Wallflower, for example, reveal the protagonist’s identity in a way his inner dialogue does not. Identity is as overrated in fiction--in fact more so--as it is in our culture, obsessed as it is with individuality. Murakami seems to understand that mundane activities are not inherently meaningful. Neither are people. From what I know, people are not prescribed an identity so firm that it stays the same regardless of circumstance. Often we don’t know what we think or feel. Culture is funny--it treats ambivalence as a problem. You don’t have a speech prepared about what time you woke up and what that indicates about your work-life balance??? Weirdo.
We consider indecisiveness as an indication of laziness, or a lack of moral fiber. Individuality, on the other hand, is not impressive but expected. Without it, a person is “impressionable,” “wishy-washy,” not fit for a high-power job or even a lively conversation. Murakami seemed to reject these assumptions. Toru, a confused and ambivalent college student, is shockingly normal. “Normal” characters can seem boring in fiction, but often teach us more about ourselves than the most eccentric protagonists. Murakami is no beach read author. Neither should his work collect dust on the shelves. If anything, it is a tool to help us accept what modern society rejects. In other words, it’s okay to be a bit boring. Toru did it and he sold 2.5 million copies.