Murakami and Me

I was introduced to Haruki Murakami through a one-page profile in Time magazine. The year was 2001. The profile coincided with the English-language publication of his only non-fiction book, Underground: The Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche, and, reading it, I was intrigued twofold. First, the author seemed to be unpretentious and a little quirky. Always a plus. Secondly, reading about the Aum Shinriko's sarin attack on the Tokyo subway system was alluring -- possibly in a perverse way, probably because I rode the subway to and from work every day, and the idea of such an event occurring on the Seoul Metro scared and interested me in equal measure. That Saturday, I took the subway to the Kyobo Book Center in Gwanghwamun and picked it up in paperback.

I know that, In Japan, Murakami took some heat for the book. Why, exactly, I'm unsure; but it may have been because he -- unintentionally -- creates too large a presence while covering the individual stories of the victims of that fateful day. Nevertheless, that is what prompted me to seek out his works of fiction. "Here is a gifted storyteller and an ostensibly likeable guy," I told myself -- and in literature those traits, in tandem, are rare even among the most gifted authors. More specifically, Murakami seemed like a guy whom I would get along well with were we to hang out (lawn darts and Casablanca); and for me and literary figures, that's very exclusive company. In fact, only one other author comes to mind.

The next Saturday I went back to Kyobo and copped Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. Needless to say, I was hooked. I ran through that badboy like Adrian Peterson does defensive tackles. Then I voraciously read, in order, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (immaculate), Norwegian Wood (ditto), The Elephant Vanishes (great collection of short stories), and...South of the Border, West of the Sun (ouch). But I wasn't mad for that last one. Shower me with greatness and I'll grant you a mulligan. (Unless you're titled Idlewild, that is.) It's when you start making a habit of going through the motions and churning out lifeless works -- word to the Wu-Tang Clan -- that my resentment kicks in.

When I briefly -- if one can call seven months brief -- returned to Canada in late-spring of 2002, I was pleased to discover that Murakami's latest English-language translation, Sputnik Sweetheart, was available in paperback (and if it were available only in hardcover I still would have purchased it: the true sign of a fantastic author). Let's be diplomatic and say that Sputnik Sweetheart and I aren't exactly on speaking terms these days. Then let's say that the book is like receiving fellatio from a piranha, or, more culturally relevant, snorting wasabi. To paraphrase the title of a Roger Ebert book, I hated, hated, hated that novel.

What I appreciated, however, was Murakami's persistence. While far from prolific (word to Idealjetsam), he isn't exactly Harper Lee, either. He kept on chugging, because that's how playas do. I picked up his next English-language publication, After the Quake, a collection of short stories inspired by the 1995 Kobe earthquake, while on a short trip to Fukuoka in autumn 2003, and the healing began. In the summer of 2005, scarce months before I started this hallowed blog, I ordered and received the first edition of Kafka on the Shore from What the Book? And while it's a good read (a good, long read, to boot), the climax and denouement come close to ruining what is, until then, a fantastic, enjoyable story. More recently, in the fall of 2006 I read Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman, Murakami's second English-language collection of short stories, and while my faith wasn't fully restored, I conceded that the old man still has some A game in him. When I discovered last week that the English translation of his short novel, after Dark*, was for sale, I was borderline apoplexic.

That's how Haruki Murakami and I roll, see. It's been ages since he's written a great novel, but still I come back, looking for that old spark, wanting to again feel that fire. Why? Because, in so many cliched words, he speaks to me. Makes me feel at home. A Haruki Murakami novel can be an old flame and a close friend, because no matter its inadequacies, you still love it, still long for it. (Except for Sputnik Sweetheart, that is.)

I mentioned before that, as far as writers whom I'm confident hanging out with would be a gas go, only another comes to mind. That man is Stephen King. Both he and Murakami have the preternatural gift of immersing their readers in a world that is, however fantastic or unbelievable, completely familiar. They also possess an incredible knack for pop culture references, however obscure; and while I know little about -- for example -- jazz or REO Speedwagon, I can appreciate the passion and inspiration inherent in each one.

The similarities don't stop there, either. Both men are celebrities in their respective countries; both have been labelled insignificant to literature by more than a few of their esteemed peers; both have the unfortunate curse of ending their stories in predictable ways (for Murakami it's a protagonist's vague dissolve into nothingness, for King an explosion); and both have never seen the inside of my refrigerator (their loss; I have cheese muffins).

Mostly, I'm using the analogy to underline each writer's uncanny ability to rise, rise more, fall, then fall spectacularly (word to Sputnik Sweetheart and The Tommyknockers), only to regain their footing, keep on chugging (word to The Little Engine that Could), and show the world that talent doesn't die, it only hibernates for a while.

I write this after reading the first sixty pages of after Dark, a novel with such promise. Murakami's dialogue is in its best form, his characters as likeable and quirky as ever; and anyone who has read Stephen King and Peter Straub's Black House will be familiar with the narrative device the novel employs. (And since King named the hotel in his short story "1408" The Dolphin after the one in Murakami's The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, I'm almost certain the two writers have a mutual admiration for one another.)

It is good to be alive in 2008.

*Boom!*



* Don't blame me for the lack of capitalization in the title, blame postmodernism.