Last night at 3:30 AM I finished reading Haruki Murakami's The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. My mother asked me if it was a good book; I said, it was OK but that I don't quite understand it. Elaborating, I said that I enjoy reading Japanese literature because of the challenge; Western literature I've read for many years, and I've grown comfortable with the themes, allusions, and literary devices, while Japanese literature is guided by a philosophy that is not bred within myself. So when I read a Murakami or Soseki book, I have to struggle and excercise my analytical mind to the fullest before understanding even the tiniest bit of it.
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle is certainly an enigmatic book to me. As with Murakami's other work, it contains both psychics and wells. But rather than a well leading to an underground lair, he uses the darkness in wells as a way of making the body disappear and leaving the mind to be observed in its newfound nakedness. As with all Japanese literature I've read (and maybe Julie can explain this), the resolution is not very satisfying to me. It's like the book reaches a development of 90% and then stops, leaving the characters and the reader 10% short a full understanding of the situation.
Of course, I could be wrong. Tomorrow I will search for a critical review of this book.
I scattered bookmarks throughout the book as I read it, marking interesting passages. The first is Toru Okada's first experience in the well, and a good piece describing the mind bringing the body into its world.
Now I was enveloped by a darkness that was total. No amount of straining helped my eyes to see a thing. I couldn't tell where my own hand was. I felt along the wall to where the ladder hung and gave it a tug. It was firmly anchored at the surface. The movement of my hand seemed to cause the darkness itself to shift, but that could have been an illusion.
It felt extremely strange not to be able to see my own body with my own eyes, though I felt it must be there. Staying very still in the darkness, I became less and less convinced of the fact that I actually existed. To cope with that, I would clear my throat now and then, or run my hand over my face. That way, my ears could check on the existence of my voice, my hand could check on the existence of my face, and my face could check on the existence of my hand.
Despite these efforts, my body began to lose its density and weight, like sand gradually being washed away by flowing water. I felt as if a fierce and wordless tug-of-war were going on inside of me, a contest in which my mind ws slowly dragging my body into its own territory. The darkness was disrupting the proper balance between the two. The thought struck me that my own body was a mere provisional husk that had been prepared for my mind by a rearrangement of the signs known as chromosomes. If the signs were rearranged yet gain, I would find myself inside a wholly different body than before. "Prositute of the mind," Creta Kano had called herself. I no longer had any trouble accepting the phrase. Yes, it was possible for us to couple in our minds and for me to come in reality. In truly deep darkeness, all kinds of strange things were possible.
I shook my head and sturggled to bring my mind back inside my body.
In the darkness, I pressed the fingertips of one hand against the fingertips of the other--thumb against thumb, index finger against index fingers. My right-hand fingers ascertained the existence of my left-hand fingers, and the fingers of my left hand ascertained the existence of the fingers of my right hand. Then I took several slow, deep breaths. OK, then, enough of this thinking about the mind. Think about reality. Think about the real world. The body's world. That's why I'm here. To think about reality. The best way to think about reality, I had decided, was to get as far away from it as possible--a place like the bottom of a well, for example. "When you're supposed to go down, find the deepest well and go down to the bottom," Mr. Honda had said. Leaning against the wall, I slowly sucked the moldy air into my lungs.
In the next excerpt, Okada has been picked up by a mysterious woman at a park who takes him out every few days, buys clothes for him at expensive boutiques and then takes him out to eat for no reason that he can see:
This reminded me of several so-called art films I had seen in college. Movies like that never explained what was going on. Explanations were rejected as some kind of evil that could only destroy the films' "reality." That was one way of thought, one way to look at things, no doubt, but it felt strange for me, as a real, live human being, to enter such a world.
Funny, that summed up the way I felt about this book. The "explanations" of the explorations of the mind that Okada experiences are vague and convoluted, to the point that they were incomprehensible. Sort of like an art film.
My last excerpt is from the dialogue of a nervous and talkative underling of the evil Noboru Wataya, whose name is Ushikawa. I noted it merely because I wasn't aware of the meaning behind the band's name:
"But to tell you the truth, Mr. Okada (and I knowyou're the one person I can really open up to), not even I know what you're doing in that place. I do know the people who visit you there are paying an arm and a leg. So you must be doing something special for them that's worth all that money. That much is as clear as counting crows on snow."
So there you have it. And in the manner of high school book reports, who would I recommend this book to? Not your average reader, and it's a bit long to be a first introduction to Haruki Murakami's fiction. But definitely a hallmark of his style, and an essential read for somebody doing a survey of his work.