Some books make you think, some make you feel, and some just recede into the dark, chasmal well of our memory, never to be found again. Some, however, haunt you for life. Every once in a while, they yank you away from reality, reeling you back into their surreal ideas and ideals. And yet, you find yourself not fully comprehending them.
Their memory is too sharp, too vivid, too pure to dissect, like a map, that is useless for it betrays too much information. And before long, their memory slips into the background, the plot, the characters themselves remain but faint vestiges of the titans you worshipped and all that’s left is an imperfect recollection. Too late it is that one realizes that all we can place in this imperfect vessel of understanding that we call writing are imperfect thoughts and imperfect memories. “Letters are just pieces of paper. Burn them, and what stays in your heart will stay; keep them, and what vanishes will vanish.
Haruki Murakami’s “Norwegian Wood” is, for me, a touching tale of the pain of loss, haunted by the hanging scepter of depression and mental turmoil bordering on illness that dogs every character from the outset. Played out to the background of the Japanese Student Movement of the 1960s, the decay of the regimented Japanese ways and the gradual shift to the Western culture best depicted by the book’s name, we follow Toru Watanabe(‘s flashback bear with me), a detached, almost depressed teenager studying literature, as he attempts to unfold and decipher the rich and confusing tapestry of his past with all its jagged, fading edges and branching intimate relationships.
The prose is particularly worth mentioning, just for the fact that the author doesn't try and embellish Toru by making him exceptionally erudite. This grants him a voice that is entirely his own, making the narration reflective of Toru’s literary prowess as opposed to his own. His almost nonchalant bluntness offers a real insight into the character itself and all the characters for that matter develop themselves through their conversations, be it Midori’s bubbly resilient openness, Naoko’s schizophrenic mood swings, or Nagasawa’s calculated excesses, the characters feel alive.
Yet the novel’s greatest strength is its vibe. A rather morbid tale of loss, the importance of moving on with and despite life’s general indifference to one’s condition undercuts the plot, seeping through the pages, popping up in conversations with Reiko and Hatsumi, the lesson that life needs to keep moving is evident. In keeping with classic Japanese literature, the book begins and ends with a snapshot of life, leaving the readers to ponder upon and answer their questions.
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