Hallmarks of Style - Oscar

While reading Metamorphosis and Murakami's Samsa in Love, I was a little struck by how obviously Murakami's writing style differs from others. Even when translated across different hands, we find the same traces of detective-like thinking, clipped sentences, and atmosphere which, while similar to hard-boiled classics, seems to separate itself on an entirely different plane of view. I think the most face-palm moment I experienced was when reading to the description of "Gregor Samsa's" erection in relation to the hunchback - of course Murakami wrote this, I thought. 

The almost unapologetic narration of all aspects of human life in practice, interjected with thoughts and tangents about seemingly anything that is present in the scene is, as far as I've read, prevalent in every single one of his works, to the point where sometimes I wonder if they are really different novels rather than the same continous story with the same overarching themes. It seems that some works inspired by his writing also try to emulate this style of narration, while others don't even bother. For example, with the film adaptations inspired by The (Second) Bakery Attack, it was again very obvious which was which. The Japanese film leaned fully into those philosophical tangents and oftentimes surreal nature of mundane life (choosing donuts can't be that deep), and created a world in which viewpoints and ideas could be called into question and changed. Conversely, the American film did none of this, at least not overtly intentionally - they took the general plot (robbing a fast food restaurant) and visually developed that, but neglected to portray deeper discussions into the curse itself, implications of Wagner, et cetera. 

This is all to say that I'm intrigued by Murakami's ability to separate himself from the pack of writers so easily, for it to be apparent even to a more passive reader like myself.  

Murakami and The Grasping of The Subconscious in Barn Burning - Alex Gibbs

Writers (and all other creatives, for that matter) have been trying to understand and grapple with the idea of the subconscious mind for centuries, even before the term was coined by psychologist Pierre Janet in 1899. The notion of a deeper layer of human consciousness is a fascinating topic and a very difficult one to capture artistically. As a painter, the idea of the subconscious has captivated me for years. I have dedicated a lot of time exploring movies, television, music, and sometimes books that explore the alluring mystery of the subconscious and how it affects human beings. Many of these sources are interesting, but do not resonate with me on a deeper level. When it comes to this topic, my intuition is rather strong. With that in mind, once in a rare while, I’ll come across a piece of subconscious-related media that just feels right, for lack of a better word. That something, whatever it may be, somehow activates an intuitive feeling in me, a feeling that I believe must indicate an accurate representation of the deeper forces that govern my mind. I found myself feeling this after our conversation about Barn Burning. 

On one hand, nothing any of the characters say can really be taken at face value. Everything feels like it could be a metaphor for something else, something deeper. As I suggested in class, the boyfriend’s admission that he burned barns had a bit of a sinister tone to it, considering Boku never finds any evidence of any burned barns. The sudden disappearance of Boku’s friend only adds to this eeriness and supports the serial killer theory. Perhaps the tie to the subconscious in this story was more evident in how I did not immediately piece together this information. Very slowly over the course of the discussion, I constructed the theory in my head. When it finally all came together, I was rather thrown off guard and disturbed. It all clicked in that moment, and I felt like it had to be the truth. That was right about when that intuitive feeling hit me. To me, that is the most crucial element of great subconscious-focused art: a deeply intuitive, unignorable gut feeling must be activated in the audience, one that unites us all. A force that we do not fully understand yet, but ultimately one that has a great effect on our lives. While every person is different, I feel that every person has explored media that triggers this intuitive feeling, whether they are aware of it or not.

 

Haruki Murakami and Soseki Natsume - Ananya

I find that even though they are a century apart, the literature of Haruki Murakami and Soseki Natsume share many common themes and ideas. I had some familiarity with both authors before this course, however I never thought to look for any connections between them. Revisiting both of these authors, Murakami in more depth and Natsume more briefly, makes it clear that there are many common threads.

Both authors explore this midpoint between Western and Japanese identities. For Natsume, this comes from living through the Meiji restoration, and for Murakami, this comes from living through a rapidly globalizing world. Each one appeals to readers with a distinctive voice that blends Western and Japanese influences — Natsume through his irony and psychological realism, and Murakami through his surreal moods and dreamlike atmospheres.

Murakami and Natsume also both deeply explore the inner psychology of their protagonists, delving deeply into their minds and studying their characters. Discussing the self is a prominent theme in their works, along with explorations of loneliness and the desire for human connection. Though Murakami often turns to magical realism while Natsume stays planted in reality, both illustrate what it means to be human in the shifting societies of their times.

- Ananya

Seeing the World Through Others’ Eyes - Sarah

One thing we know for sure is that Murakami was directly influenced by Raymond Carver’s minimalist style, which he even translated Carver’s works into Japanese. Thus, while reading “Barn Burning,” “The Second Bakery Attack,” and “Cathedral,” I noticed a shared, implicit message: the unreliability of the narrator and how each story gradually opens the narrator’s eyes through the intrusion of another’s worldview. In a more magical sense, this can be seen as an incarnation of another character’s consciousness, which could be interpreted as a sign of Murakami’s use of magical realism.

“Barn Burning” closely resembles Murakami’s “A Wild Sheep Chase,” as both protagonists encounter someone who draws them into an absurd and nonsensical journey. The narrator of “Barn Burning” starts to construct an elaborate mental map to find the next barn to burn, ultimately developing a strange compulsion to commit the act himself.

In “The Second Bakery Attack,” the couple experiences tension and is cursed by compromises, with the husband passively coerced into most decisions. Their late-night robbery of a burger place becomes a bizarre yet transformative experience that helps them to break their “curse” and deepens their emotional connection. The man recalls his earlier bakery robbery, where he and his partner claimed that they enjoyed listening to Wagner’s music, and ended up being “ filled up with bread while being filled up with Wagner.” These two shabby men started to get a taste of this elegant music with the complex textures and rich harmonies of the orchestra. 

Finally, in Carver’s “Cathedral,” the narrator’s initial condescending attitude toward “the blind man” evolves into understanding when he allows the blind man to guide his hand in drawing a cathedral. With his eyes closed, he begins to see the world through another’s perspective which he experiences a profound moment of empathy.

All of these “wearing another’s shoes” moments reveal a shared postmodernism entrenched in magical realism, the temporary vanish of one’s own consciousness, and the awakening with seeing through someone else’s lens. This further proves the intertextuality of all postmodern works, in which authors share similarities and stay connected through adopting similar literary techniques.

East and West in Murakami's Stories

I’ve been thinking about what western culture represents in Murakami’s stories. There is no doubt that they are essential parts of his stories. His characters listen to jazz music, cook spaghetti and read American fiction. It almost feels like his stories are drowned in references as he constantly sprinkles in names of bands, pieces or literary works. Conversely, there seems to be a lack of clear influences or references to Japanese culture and traditions. I’m starting to think that although traditional Japanese influences seem less prominent upon first glance, most of not all of his characters still have mentalities that are in line with the Japanese norm. Yet because they are also drawn to elements in the western culture, they end up with unique inner conflicts that result in their isolation from the world around them. Although the novel doesn’t highlight this aspect, the characters Murakami describes must somewhat be the uncommon ones in their environment. In that reality, it must be difficult for them to find others who are interested in the same things as them. In a way, they are destined to be the outliers in both the western and Japanese culture, which results in them having this deep loneliness that they cannot seem to shake. 

But in another sense, west and east in his story might not even be what it seems. Thinking back to the France and Germany essay we read, it’s not too far-fetched to assume that Murakami is simply using the dichotomy between the two cultures as symbols for something else. It seems like in his stories, his Bokus are usually the ones who go on transformational journeys that change their perspectives drastically. I wonder if a character’s affinity to the west represents a kind of openness to change. Just like how they are drawn to understanding and learning from foreign cultures, perhaps these characters are also more willing to change the way they view and interact with the world. Because of their affinity to what’s different from what they’ve known, it is natural that they, instead of others around them, are the ones who travel into another dimension where animals speak and dreams become realities. Considering Murakami also writes in a style that’s uncharacteristic for a Japanese author, often not using proper names for his characters, one could argue that even the form of his fiction echoes this notion of foreignness. In fact, what makes his work “un-Japanese” is probably what gives his work its transcendental quality. 

We talked about the skepticism that lies at the heart of postmodernism and how this genre seeks to challenge established institutions and question the objectivity of our reality. In this sense, Murakami’s work lies solidly within the realm of postmodernist literature. So if this is the case, maybe to a certain extent readers analyze Murakami’s works too “seriously.” Maybe a cat is just a cat in his stories, and it just so happens that someone understands the language they speak and nothing more. Maybe his stories are supposed to seem a bit absurd. But to understand their message is to accept how concretely these absurdities present themselves in those stories. Perhaps we also just need to be open to change and to the foreignness of Murakami’s stories to truly understand them. 

 

Cora 

Doors in Kafka's Metamorphosis

One of the most interesting things I noticed in Franz Kafka’s The Metamorphosis was the continuous mention of doors. Pretty much every important moment in the story happens in relation to one. Gregor’s bedroom door becomes a barrier between him and the rest of the world. In the beginning, Gregor’s family and his boss speak to him through it, worried about why he hasn’t left for work. Kafka writes, “His sister whispered, ‘Gregor, open up, I'm pleading with you.’ But Gregor had absolutely no intention of opening the door.” As the story progresses and Gregor’s transformation takes place, the door takes on a new meaning. It becomes a symbol of his isolation. In Chapter 3, when Gregor quietly watches his family through a door left “opened a crack.” Kafka writes, “Every day around dusk the living-room door…was opened, so that, lying in the darkness of his room, invisible from the living room, he could see the whole family sitting at the table under the lamp…”. Gregor can can see his family but can’t join them. By the time Gregor’s sister starts feeding him without looking at him, the door turns into a boundary of shame. She opens it just enough to push food through and then shuts it again immediately. The family stops addressing him directly, speaking through the door rather than to him.

It’s interesting that Kafka uses doors specifically. Doors are liminal. It’s never entirely open or closed, and is the perfect metaphor for conditional love. While the family can approach it, speak through it, and knock, they will never step across it. In the end, when Gregor dies alone behind it, the closed door becomes the perfect symbol for his dehumanization. 

Anika Mukherjee

Discussion about Intertextuality

Our class discussion on the lowbrow and highbrow aspects of Murakami’s use of intertextuality led me to question not the degree of his references but the extent to which they become necessary to appreciate his work. After giving it some thought, I am of the opinion that Murakami incorporates optional intertextuality, anecdotes that add nuance but are by no means necessary to understanding his work, as opposed to obligatory intertextuality that would require familiarity with the mentioned works, pop culture references, and so forth to understand Murakami’s intentions.

There are a multitude of references found in Murakami that vary greatly across genres, types of work, and how deep or highbrow the illusion may be. From The Beatles, to The Great Gatsby, to The Graduate, to The Sound of Music, to Brahms' Fourth Symphony, there is something for everyone, and it helps create a space that the reader can step into. As we have discussed in class, Murakami paints a mood in his work, and in my opinion, it seems the enjoyment from reading Murakami is taking what you wish out of it. From this perspective, it seems that Murakami arguably never employs obligatory intertextuality, and he invites readers to engage with his work to the depth that they please.

Murakami’s intertextuality exists as a reflection of himself and of his own interests. It seems that Murakami has woven such references in his work that have been impactful to his life into his work because, before he was a writer, he was a reader.

- Alex McBrier

Disillusionment and Disconnection

 For the past weeks' readings, what I had found most interesting was Tender is the Night and Sputnik Sweetheart. Both stories had focused on the emotional / mental downfall of the female characters. In Sputnik Sweetheart, Miu recounts how she was split in two, becoming two separate entities. One where she is tormented by a Spanish man and she is constantly trying to get away from him, and the other where she seems to be attracted to the man. She eventually is forced to face this other half of herself when she's trapped on a Ferris wheel and she sees her other self sleeping with the man. She is so repulsed by it that she faints and loses all color in her hair. This makes her disgusted with the idea of sex, and yet, despite this, the narrator is still in love with her. 

There is then a similar notion of mental decay seen in Tender is the Night, where Nicole acts out throughout the chapter while Dick is desperate to try to control her. There are these instances where Nicole seems calm enough, yet they are almost immediately juxtaposed, like when she fights with Dick over a letter she received from one of his patients, or when they also get to the fair, she abandons her kids and dick to go to the Ferris wheel, and the chapter ends with her crashing the car while Dick is driving. 

In both these chapters, love is inherently corrosive for both men, as they are willing to put up with the shortcomings of the unstable women they are dating. It inherently depicts love as capable of transcending, but consistently falls short and ends in estrangement. Both women seem to long for intimacy but both couples only experience distance and the women themselves experience disintegration of the self. The disintegration of self then creates these fragmented personalities that allow for both Murakami and Fitzgerald to explore trauma and desire, and how it can divide the self and make one emotionally unstable.

Pilar Diaz

The Often Underappreciated Sincerity of Modernism

    In class, we discussed A Wild Sheep Chase as the clearest example of Murakami's (alleged) postmodernism: a work that is fragmented, ironic and aware of its own absurdity. As we know, the story floats through many surreal landscapes and commercial symbols, as if nothing in its world has stable meaning. Following Mary Klages' definition, it effectively dismantles grand narratives, blurs fantasy and reality and treats identity as something you can switch "on" and "off," as if it were a channel. Iwamoto's essay also fits here where it is argued that A Wild Sheep Chase captures Japan's late-capitalist emptiness, a place where the self gets lost in consumer culture. It's clever, but it also feels intentionally hollow, as if Murakami was letting us drift right alongside his nameless protagonist.

    Enter Norwegian Wood, which, on the other hand, has a named protagonist, and feels like Murakami's rebellion against that same detachment. I'd argue it leans more towards modernism--a return to emotional sincerity and psychological realism. The novel trades its irony for intimacy: Watanabe's grief and confusion aren't stylized or self-conscious; they're direct, vulnerable and deeply human. His fragmented memories do not reflect postmodern play, but rather, modernist introspection, echoing modernist writers like Woolf or Kawabata, who used broken time to explore the inner self.

    Of course, these are just two of many Murakami works, and labeling him as purely "modernist" or "postmodernist" completely misses the point. Still, Norwegian Wood stands out because it dares to take emotion seriously in a literary era infatuated with irony. If A Wild Sheep Chase laughs at meaning's collapse, Norwegian Wood mourns it--and that, to me, is a more courageous response.

-Josh K.

Literary Analysis as Dream Interpretation

Murakami disjoints narratives, gives supernatural powers to body parts, and creates mystical worlds just a train ride away from reality. Reading his work often feels like wading through a dreamland, and because of this, I’ve noticed our analysis of Murakami’s literature often looks eerily similar to a dream interpretation. Sigmund Freud in The Interpretation of Dreams identifies the components of a dream as the manifest content (the images or people that exist in the dream) and the latent content (the hidden desires or meaning in these symbols). He says that integrating these components together creates the dream interpretation. 

In the following section, I am going to model our interpretation of the chapter “She Leaves the Mountain; Hunger Strikes” from A Wild Sheep Chase in the shape of a dream analysis. 

Manifest Content

In this chapter, Boku awakes in the cabin in Hokkaido. He instinctively knows that his girlfriend is gone from the cabin — she has left him alone on his mission to find the sheep. He says the house had a “vacated atmosphere” which he only ever felt after his wife left him. He checks for her all over the cabin, heats up some stew, pours a glass of wine, and enjoys his meal to “Perfidia”. He thinks about what his life would be like if he didn’t have to go on this sheep chase. He would be eating omelettes and drinking whiskey. He continues his day as usual and reads Sherlock Holmes before bed.

Latent Content

In this chapter, there is a wish that things would return to normal. Perhaps he wishes that he had never gone on this wild sheep chase, and as a refusal to recognize the direness of his situation and the loneliness he feels, he continues on as normal. Boku tries to escape in many ways: envisioning himself back at home, listening to cheerful music, reading a detective story. His wife leaving him clearly scarred him, and this wound is reopened by his girlfriend leaving. Ultimately, the distractions of the chapter, to a trained eye, demonstrate the deep hurt of being left by a partner. Even the ordinary cheerful things are imbued with emptiness.

When we’re engaging in literary analysis, especially with works as mystical as some of Murakami’s, viewing things not only at face value but also as symbols of hidden desires and meanings can be helpful. Don’t try to establish meaning from the manifest content, but use it as a tool for a deeper interpretation.

-Ayjia

Is it really ever that deep? - Khadeja Usmani

            When we discuss motifs and references in class, especially those to older Western culture, I can’t help but think about them through the lens of politics. As a political science student, I find it impossible to ignore how Murakami’s The Bakery Attack and The Second Bakery Attack are not just stories about hunger but about the systems that define consumption.

In The Bakery Attack, when the baker tells the two students they can have bread only if they listen to Wagner, the scene shifts from survival to submission. The baker isn’t violent, but he subtly imposes order by setting the terms of their need, turning a moment of desperation into a controlled exchange. Wagner’s music, which was later associated with Nazi ideology, adds another layer to this dynamic. It represents how power can disguise itself as culture–just how state control can be deceptive in nature. The students’ hunger is satisfied, but only after they conform to the baker’s ritual. Murakami’s choice of Wagner paired with the exchange between the baker and students makes me think how even small acts of order can reflect larger systems of control. I’m not completely sure if this can be read through the lens of fascism, but the story seems to suggest how authority often works quietly, shaping behavior under the guise of civility or art. 

In The Second Bakery Attack, that same need for order takes on a different shape. The baker and Wagner are replaced by McDonald’s–the most premier symbol of mass production and convenience. The narrator and his wife carry out their “attack” almost automatically, following a script they don’t fully understand. Their hunger is finally gone, and they even feel happy, but it’s a strange kind of relief–more like a reset than a resolution. After reading this story, I still felt a sense of unease as if there was no true conclusion. I believe Murakami attempts to show how systems of control adapt over time over the course of these two stories. The order that fascism once enforced through ideology is now maintained through habit, repetition, and comfort. I’m not entirely sure if the story is meant to be read this way, but it made me think about how capitalism satisfies us just enough to keep us from questioning the source of our hunger in the first place.

Why "The Second Bakery Attack" Makes Sense as an American Film - Max

After watching the movie adaptation of Murakami's "The Second bakery Attack," I think I understand why it boasts an American cast — even though the director, Carlos Cuaron, is a Mexican screenwriter. 

The reason is capitalism. 

The setting of the second attack is immediately understood by an American audience.  Swapping a "traditional" bakery attack for fast food burgers is comical, but also immediately legible to an American audience. This also comments on American consumerism and fast food culture.  Fast food provides convenience and a low price at the expense of true nutrition, and that's exactly the way the system works: eat now, think later. This aligns well with the open ending of the story. The couple eats, and the hunger subsides... but did it actually fix the underlying problem, or was it just an ephemeral solution? In my opinion, I think a comment on broader capitalism is precisely what they were trying to portray with the American cast, though I cannot say the same for the original story. 

I don't think Murakami intended this as a critique of American capitalism specifically; rather, a comment on how society itself has shifted towards convenience over meaning — making the bread easily replaceable by Big Macs. 

Ferris Wheel Scene in Sputnik Sweetheart

 When we talked about Sputnik Sweetheart the other day, most of the discussion regarding the Ferris wheel scene revolved around how Miu had schizophrenia, or how the scene was some kind of metaphysical experience. But for me, I read it as a portrayal of her trauma, specifically when she was sexually assaulted.

There’s a passage that captures the inner emotions that Miu was going through while she watched herself and the other man have sexual intercourse. She described the scene as “grotesquely exaggerated, [and] menacing,” and that she “felt like she was going to vomit.” Miu’s adverse reaction to this is heavier and more unsettling than usual because this sexual encounter is unlike any encounter she has had with other men. She mentions that they, the people engaged in the intercourse, were “deliberating showing her this scene,” like they "knew she was watching". And when Miu was about to realize that this sexual intercourse was not what it made itself out to be, she suddenly lost consciousness, like her mind shut down to protect her from the horrifying truth hidden beneath the surface.

With this new theory, it would explain so much why her hair suddenly turned white. She may have experienced what is called Marie Antoinnete syndrome, which is the sudden whitening of the hair due to excessive stress or trauma. If you combine that with her cuts, bloodied blouse, fragmented memory, and everything else that happened after she woke up, these are all possible indicators of sexual abuse.

Furthermore, the reference to the single mirror reinforces this reading of trauma. Miu says she could “never cross the boundary of that single pane of glass,” which implies she can’t return to her past self due to the trauma that has left her isolated from who she once was. This consequently led her to drop from her studies, her passion for piano, and even her sense of identity. 

Later, she says, “We never make love… I don’t want to touch him. I just don’t want to,” and follows with these lines, “What you see here isn’t really me. This is just a shadow of who I was.” These words demonstrate the aftermath of her trauma, further showing how it fractured her sense of self and left her emotionally hollow and devoid of love. 

Actually, now that I’m typing this, I realize that there was significant foreshadowing leading up to the Ferris wheel scene, with Miu wanting to leave town and the man calling her. Her repeated (almost desperate) desire to flee the town hints that she was trying to escape this “ominous shadow” (maybe the man?) that she felt was closing in on her. 

Anyway, I found this chapter really unnerving and heartbreaking. I don’t think I ever want to read this again just because of how depressing the chapter was.

Joline

Hunger with no Meaning-Sylvia Chen

When I first read The Second Bakery Attack, I was struck by its strange sense of normalcy. The story feels both mundane and surreal. A newly married couple wakes up in the middle of the night, consumed by hunger. They decide to (rob/attack?) a bakery, but end up at a fast-food restaurant instead. Everything about the night is absurd, but Murakami’s narration stays calm and detached, as if this were a normal night.

That tone is emotionless, which fascinates me. But it catches something true about real life. People often act irrationally, not because of grand motives, but because of small, human impulses, like boredom, emptiness, or hunger. 

And the relationship between the husband and wife shows the tension perfectly. The husband, who tells the bakery story first, but after hesitates in his words. The wife, in contrast, is decisive. Her simple word, “Attack another bakery. Right away”, changes the entire night. In that moment, the couple’s passivity breaks. Their decision is driven by a shared need to act, to fill the silence of their lives.

I think the action of attacking the bakery itself has no real meaning. What matters is that they finally do something. Every day life often traps people in repetition—eat, sleep, work, repeat. By stepping out of that routine, even through an absurd act, they recover a sense of control. When they finally eat burgers, they don’t only gain physical nourishment, but also relief. Their hunger fades not only because of food, but because the act itself gives meaning to the moment.

Murakami makes everything stay implicit. The story ends quietly; they eat, feel full, and go home. No police, no guilt, no reflection. The night simply passes. Perhaps that is Murakami’s quiet message. Not every action carries meaning. Sometimes people move, speak, or decide for no reason other than the desire to feel alive. Perhaps, within that simplicity, lies the most honest truth.

From Naoko's Red to Midori's Green.

After doing my research, I've seen many readers debate Norwegian Wood's ending. However, the symbolic details in the last chapter, clarify the message that Murakami is trying to convey. Little details made me realize that the novel's theme is Watanabe's emotional transition from "death" (Naoko) to "life" (Midori), and the use of color mirrors that perfectly. Murakami's original two-volume design reinforces this. Book 1 is red, the color of blood and Naoko's death, while Book 2 is green, symbolizing Midori (whose name literally means "green"). I'm not sure whether this is the true reasoning behind his choice of the red and green covers, but this is my hypothesis. 

Even Reiko's final appearance in the final chapter has spiritual cues. Reiko's name can be associated with "霊魂" in Japanese which means spirit or ghost. Her trip to Asahikawa, which can be linked to the afterlife in Japanese folklore, suggests she may represent Naoko's spirit returning for a final goodbye. Details like her "coffin-like" bullet train ride support this interpretation. 

So, Watanabe's farewell with Reiko isn't just a physical closure but is almost symbolic in a sense. The scene could be seen as Naoko's spirit bidding him farewell so he can finally choose life with Midori. In addition, this could be another interpretation of why Reiko was wearing Naoko's clothes. Thus, the abrupt cut from Reiko's departure to Watanabe's call to Midori could be considered a shift from death's hold on Watanabe to the living world, a passage from red to green.

Anika Mukherjee.

Post from Alex G.

 

Going through Norwegian Wood, I had several thoughts. The first being that this was, to me, the strangest and most seemingly out-of-place Murakami novel. There is very little content in this novel that could be considered magical realism, and even that could be considered a stretch. Secondly, Norwegian Wood reminded me of a manga I read a little bit of in the past (I had to stop because of how incredibly dark and nihilistic it was). This manga is Goodnight Punpun, written and illustrated by Inio Asano. In this story, Punpun is a boy who is depicted as a bird to illustrate to readers his mental decline through a physical representation. These two works have quite a few similarities in plot and theme, with both including realistic depictions of mental illness, suicide, and making difficult decisions. The most direct parallel, however, is that both characters have to choose between two romantic interests. Even more interestingly, both Punpun and Toru’s choices are made for them with the suicide of their other love interest (Naoko and Aiko). This very well may be a homage to Norwegian Wood from Inio Asano. 

While Toru is more of a passive participant in his life, Punpun actively makes decisions that prove to be extremely damaging to his sanity and mental health. Neither attitude is particularly healthy or ideal, but these are not uncommon for young adults who have experienced a lot of trauma and do not possess healthy coping strategies.

Finally, I wanted to add that despite having similar themes, Goodnight Punpun is a far more grim and disturbing depiction of mental illness and trauma. I would not recommend this manga for anyone easily influenced by disturbing content/literature, because man, does this story have every character consistently going through some of the most painful story arcs that I’ve ever read. In that way, this manga makes Norwegian Wood seem light (ish) in comparison.

Maybe I Have Been Overthinking Murakami

After finishing A Wild Sheep Chase, I found myself trying to find a deeper meaning behind the book, making theories for the Rat and what he resembles, what the sheep man resembles, what Boku's girlfriends' ears resemble...

I analyzed the symbolism behind each of these "mystical" features, trying to decode what they all meant. The story felt like a puzzle designed to be solved, a surreal allegory about identity, power and isolation. However, when I later read Norwegian Wood, my perspective changed quite significantly. Here was a Murakami novel much less doused in surrealism and more grounded in reality, fragility, death, love and loneliness, in the most straightforward way possible. It made me wonder if I had been overcomplicating everything all along.

Norwegian Wood got me thinking that Murakami's writing, even when strange, might not be meant to be dissected so intensely. Perhaps beneath the surreal surface of A Wild Sheep Chase lies something remarkably simple--the same longing for connection and the same quiet emptiness that drives Norwegian Wood. The difference may be solely through how it is presented: one through talking sheep and dreamlike landscapes and the other through the everyday experiences of a youthful individual. Both chase something unreachable, but perhaps Murakami's point is that there is nothing to "solve" at all, rather there is only something to feel.

I realized that I can appreciate Murakami much more if I spend less time trying to decode hidden meanings, and more time sitting with the mood he creates. The quiet, longing, strange comfort of "not knowing" introduced to me by Norwegian Wood proved to me that Murakami's stories, no matter how abstract or grounded, might be less about interpretation and more about resonance with the reader. Maybe his words are less so puzzles...maybe they are mirrors, reflecting how we overthink, search and yearn to find meaning where there might simply just be life, as it was intended to be lived. 

But maybe me thinking this way is overthinking in itself.

-Josh K.

Ami Hostel: A Reflection Based in Reality

    I was shocked in class to hear that Norwegian Wood felt surreal or even fantastical to some. The main reason is the psychiatric facility where Reiko and Naoko stay, which shocked me even more. This novel reads to me as purely realistic. In fact, it seems so based in reality that it reminded me heavily of what it's like to live in a psychiatric facility. In fact, the hostel is one of the most accurate portrayals of a mental facility that I've ever read. I believe that having experienced a similar living situation to Naoko's has given me a unique perspective on the validity and actuality of the novel’s plot.

    One quote that is called back a couple of times, “What makes us most normal…” “... is knowing that we’re not normal,” perfectly encapsulates what it is like. Naoko and Reiko’s outlook on life is also very similar to what one might expect in such a place. In the cafeteria, the conversations are quiet and seem to act like background noise, but this is also extremely true to life; the facility isn't a school or restaurant. It's a psychiatric ward. Additionally, the people here are suffering from various mental struggles; it's really not shocking that the conversations feel odd or monotonous. It's realistic. 

    I think framing the idea of such a facility from the perspective of what it is actually like to live in one is important in recognizing how normal the Ami Hostel actually is. I do, however, understand how different this situation may seem to those who have never experienced something like this. I think it would be interesting for others to look into YouTube videos of people who have had similar experiences to learn about the reality of it. 

-Kyla Pascoe

Liminal Settings and Characters in Murakami

It seems to me that Murakami enjoys writing very liminal characters — characters that exist in between worlds. We saw this with Boku in A Wild Sheep Chase as he functioned between the normality of his job which began to unravel, and the highly surreal sheep chase that the novel is centered on. Even as Boku progresses in the chase, liminality still reveals itself in the Dolphin Hotel — existing at the edge of reality and surreality.

Similarly, in Norwegian Wood, Toru is attempting to find balance after Kizuki's death, yet he is caught in-between two worlds. Naoko emulates the past, while Midori is energetic and full of life. Living on the edge of life vs. death/ past vs. future/ Naoko vs. Midori, Toru exists in this state of uncertainty— accounting for his indecisive, almost isolating, mentality throughout the Novel. 

From what I've seen so far, Murakami utilizes these types of characters and spaces a lot. I don't think Norwegian Wood is realistic for other reasons, but I do think Murakami's use of liminality perhaps comments on the natural ambiguity of life... and in that manner it is realistic. This is the most realistic theme I've explored in Murakami so far. Life so often happens in-between states. I know I've felt that way. But that limbo isn't healthy. Escaping or finding a way out of that setting is the only way you can resume living. When Toru makes the decision to be with Midori and calls her, he finally escaped his betweenness. I think that's why he was so disoriented: he was living in that uncertainty for too long which caused him to dissociate when he finally "woke up".   

Max

Trains and Stations, What Could They Mean?

 To me, there seems to be a connection between Murakami’s works and trains. In his works, and especially in Norwegian Wood, train stations seem to always be points where things start or stop — or rather, places where people meet and people depart. At the same time, traveling on trains seems to also be a part of a liminal space, noting the line (which I’m having trouble finding, and is either from The Long Goodbye or A Wild Sheep Chase), which notes the characters' feeling as if they are always in transit to another location.

I feel that this may be a connection to Buddhism, specifically in the tying of everything being transitive and changing, where both trains and train stations represent a place where journeys start and stop, either together or alone. All is changing and in motion from one part of life to another, and thus, like trains and their stations, are full of people who are in motion from one area to the next. I wonder, then, if in Norwegian Wood if this may also represent rebirth, seeing these stations are being a place where one life leads to the next. Stations always seem to be, as stated before, a meeting or departing point within the book, and thus, I do wonder whether these stations can serve as markers where we may note that something may change, and that a character may be reborn. Though I’m not too sure if this is true, I do think the constant reference to trains and stations may hold a deeper meaning.

Rysen

Between Naoko and Midori: Love, Loss, and Cultural Identity

In Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami portrays love as inseparable from suffering and trauma. For Toru, closeness and intimacy always emerge through pain and loss. His relationships with Naoko and Midori reveal not only his confusion about love but also the two women served as an analogy between Japan’s cultural and traditional restraint, and Western openness, which reflected his cultural tendency and conflicts.

Toru’s love for Naoko is undeniable as he constantly thinks of her, visits her at the sanatorium, and clings to the promise of never forgetting their time together. He loves Naoko as a memory, idealizing her fragility while describing her body as “beautiful” and “flawless.” This gaze description scene in the sanatorium made me a little uncomfortable since I've always believed that his love for her is sincere and pure, until then, he was objectifying her.  Toru never really empathizes with Naoko in a way that he offers a solution or tries to bring her out of misery, he was always just giving a quiet presence and listening. I believe Naoko symbolizes a Japan trapped in melancholy, purity, and silence. 

Midori, on the other hand, reflects a Westernized sense of modernity and freedom. She is outspoken, sexually confident, and vibrant. Toru is always hesitant toward Midori, torn between the comfort of memory from Naoko and the vitality from Midori, which ties back to the country analogy, reminding me of his forever aspiration toward Western culture. In the ending of the story he picked Midori to be in his future, which aligns with Murakami’s own trajectory in life as he moved abroad shortly after the publication of Norwegian Wood. 

For Toru, love becomes not a connection but accompany, a way to survive loneliness. In Murakami’s world, love is both a reflection of loss and a search for identity in a rapidly changing cultural landscape, reflecting on his own identity.

    Sarah 

The loneliness of Murakami's written relationships.

     After reading a lot of Murakami's work specifically on how relationships exist with the narrator and the other characters in each work, there is this feeling of loneliness that is felt about these relationships, even when he two characters are close together, and that it usually ends in a tragic loss where someone dies or disappears. We see this in Murakami's works such as Tony Takitani and Norwegian Wood, where death is a common similarity between these two novels. In Tony Takitani I did feel as if his feelings towards his wife were strong and he couldn't get over her death which is understandable, but ultimately it just ends up with the written work literally saying he was "really alone." In Norwegian Wood and even the Wild Sheep Chase whereas in one the girlfriend dies and in the other the girlfriend disappears, and this shows how the narrator often like had this emotional gap with his girlfriend and he always writes as if there's a part of her he never understood fully. In Norwegian Wood this can be seen with Naoko where Toru doesn't understand Naoko's inability to move on from grief and how she loving him is more of a connection to Kizuki.  

    I think there is a silver lining to this in the sense that despite the trauma and grief that's endured here, there's often some realization here. Perhaps it is that like certain people truly are special, or that in some cases life changes and people have to accept that as hard as it may be, but I do think that despite the loneliness of these relationships there is in a way a feeling of calm in the sense that Murakami's couples still empathize with each other and are there for each other at least sometimes.

Mark 

The Dreamlike Women of Murakami’s Novels

In both A Wild Sheep Chase and Norwegian Wood, we encounter female characters who are mystical and elusive, almost as though these women exist more as symbols or ghosts instead of real people. There are theories that Boku's girlfriend from A Wild Sheep Chase was merely a figment of his imagination the entire time, and similarly, there are theories that Naoko from Norwegian Wood was dead for the duration of the novel.

Both female characters almost seem like symbols or reflections of their respective male protagonists' inner lives. Boku's girlfriend has psychic powers and nudges the plot forward, acting like a guide for Boku to enter a more magical realm and confront various plot points. She is a catalyst for change in the trajectory of Boku's life. Naoko has descriptions that resemble those of a ghost, and her "death" in the novel can also be read as Toru's final reconciliation with her death. She evokes themes of memory, life and death, and impermanence. Both female characters carry a dreamlike quality to them, making them feel like they are at the cusp of existence, but not quite fully real people themselves somehow.

Murakami leaves his writing in both novels very ambiguous, letting the reader decide for themselves how they prefer to interpret the story and characters. Personally, I do think it is interesting that it is frequently his female characters, especially those that are also romantic interests, who serve as catalysts for change and reflection for the male protagonists. Why does he choose to do this? Why does he do this repeatedly — is it intentional or unintentional? I am curious to see whether this will be a trend in his other works that we will read in the future.

        Ananya 

Ananya

Murakami’s Music Taste and My Own

 As I read Murakami’s writing, I am drawn to how he intertwines music with his narrative, using it as an emotional connection that provides comfort that words cannot convey on their own. I often find myself pausing to listen to a mentioned piece before continuing with the story, a little habit that seems to be enriching the reading. His usage of music is profound, and it is not only a cultural connection but also used as an extension of the characters.

Each piece seems to be hand-picked for the moment and sort of harmonizes with the narrative. For instance, when Watanabe sees the film The Graduate, a reference is later brought up when they hear the song Scarborough Fair over the radio, and Reiko learns the piece on Guitar. This particular film follows the story of a college graduate who is pulled into a strange love triangle with a married woman and her Daughter. The motif of love triangles, as well as the protagonist being adrift in his ways in this movie, all seem synonymous with Watanabe, and the music pairs flawlessly with this story. 

Additionally, I cannot help but feel drawn to these references myself. Having seen Doobie Brothers perform this past summer, thinking back to "South Bay Strut", as well as having seen Brahms’ Symphonies at the BSO with mention in Norwegian Wood, the music feels familiar and warm. His mention of listening to Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue on repeat during a rainy night is comforting to Watanabe, and I believe he tries to convey that comforting emotion to the reader as well. I find Murakami’s musical portfolio to be very vivid in his stories. Possibly, this can be attributed to his time spent at his club Peter Cat.

Alex McBrier

Echo of Loss

 What had struck me most about Norwegian Wood was the disquieting ending. For most of the novel, there is this impending worry about Naoko after her ex-boyfriend's suicide. Watanabe tears himself apart like rosary draped women over Naoko’s sickness and her sudden disappearance. When he does eventually manage to rekindle their relationship, the two have a parasocial relationship where it is up to Watanabe to maintain the connection and coddle her constantly. Naoko’s illness is notable in that she is otherwise unable to express any of her feelings in ways that she can be understood by others. This inability plagues her in the book until the end when she decides to take her own life. 

And although the book focuses on Watanabe caring for her, what is most interesting is that when he finally decides he has it within himself to move on from her suicide and be with Midori, he is unable to do so. “Where was I now? Gripping the receiver, I raised my head and turned to see what lay beyond the phone box. Where was I now? I had no idea. No idea at all. Where was this place? All that flashed into my eyes were the countless shapes of people walking by to nowhere. Again and again I called out for Midori from the dead centre of this place that was no place.” He is then plagued with the same illness of sorts that led to Kizuki and then Naoko to commit suicide. The vagueness of the ending and his coming to have the same issues reflect how grief can erase direction. 

            Pilar 

Toru Watanabe: The Author of Norwegian Wood

It is very easy to be drawn into the despondent, jazz, whiskey, and sex-filled world of Norwegian Wood without remembering how the book begins. In chapter one, we are briefly introduced to 37-year-old Toru Watanabe on a flight to Hamburg. He hears “Norwegian Wood” by the Beatles and is reminded of Naoko, a woman he was in love with 20 years prior. “Norwegian Wood” was her favorite song, and it brings back painful memories of her suicide. The key detail of this opening chapter comes at the end when he says: 

“Writing from memory like this, I often feel a pang of dread. What if I’ve forgotten the most important thing?... Be that as it may, it’s all I have to work with. Clutching these faded, fading, imperfect memories to my breast, I go on writing this book with all the desperate intensity of a starving man sucking on bones.”  (Murakami, 9-10)

This is an interesting detail that I missed in my first reading. Here, Toru reveals that what we are about to read is an autobiographical telling of his relationship with Naoko and the important moments during that period of his life. This gives us a crucial perspective and explains some of the facets of the book that are commonly criticized. 

A common criticism of Norwegian Wood is that Murakami doesn’t write women very well. While this criticism has merit in some of his other work, I don’t think it applies to this book. I take “well-written” to mean fleshed out, complex, and realistic, and I believe that, aside from Toru, none of the characters fit this definition. For example, the two most prominent male characters, Stormtrooper and Nagasawa, are not likable, nor do they fit the aforementioned definition of “well-written.” Nagasawa is a narcissistic womanizer who likely read a few passages of Nietzsche and thinks of himself as an Übermensch. And Stormtrooper is a neuroatypical clean freak whose only purpose is to serve as the butt of Toru’s jokes because of his OCD. Neither of these characters strikes me as any more “well-written” than the female characters in this book. 

This is by design. Murakami makes it clear to us with the quote above that Toru is attempting to write a book, 20 years later, about himself and his memories of a traumatic period. He clearly has trouble remembering and reckoning with this time of his life, and it shows up in his writing. All of the characters have been warped by time, and the small sliver of reality that remains is what we read. Each character is a fragment and a judgment within Toru’s mind, and only the most visceral memories of them play out in the narrative. 

What we are reading is Toru’s self-reflection on a time that has had a pivotal impact on his existence. There is no objectivity to this story, and it should not be viewed as such. Each character is only relevant because of their impact on Toru’s character and experience. This book should not be read as a character study or criticized because its characters don’t fit with our views. But rather it should be read as a glimpse into the complexities of memory and trauma, and how our relationships shape us.  

Isaac Robillard

Self-absorbed Protagonists and Their Futile Pursuits of Love

In Norwegian Wood, we see Toru unable to commit himself to either Naoko or Midori throughout the story. He feels a deep connection for both of them, which makes the idea of potentially losing either seem devastating. But his indecisiveness ultimately does more harm than good, hurting both Naoko and Midori in ways that are arguably irreparable. I think a part of the reason why he’s so indecisive is that in the end, the young Toru fails to see romantic or even social relationships in a broader sense as something mutually impactful. Too absorbed in his own thoughts, past and traumas, he fails to truly grasp the depth of other’s pain, as much as he tries to support them and cares for them. Toru perceives the enormous size of Naoko’s pain but never truly understands the depth what Naoko goes through with her idealization of death and anxieties regarding sex. He completely forgets about Midori for three weeks when he moved, buried too deep in his own troubles, despite actually deeply caring for Midori as a friend. I feel like this inevitable self-absorbedness is also a theme in A Wild Sheep Chase, where Boku brings his girlfriend on an insane journey full of uncertainties with very little hesitations. Later, when the Rat (or the Sheep Man) reveals that this journey is not meant for her, it’s almost as if the universe is telling him that he should’ve taken on the burdens to uncover his own past himself. Both Toru and Boku’s love stories end in ways that are not traditionally happy. Boku never sees his girlfriend again, and Toru’s status with Midori remains uncertain despite him finally making up his mind about. In general, Murakami’s protagonists seem to live a little too much in their own heads. Because the stories are narrated from their perspectives, we as readers often don’t immediately catch the callousness or ignorance in their actions towards others. 

Another self-absorbed character that comes to mind is Jay Gatsby in The Great Gatsby. In his tragic pursuit for Daisy, he acts solely to serve his obsession and isn't concerned for the morality of his actions (bootlegging to gain his wealth, for example.) He acts this way because Daisy is literally an embodiment of his past. Although I don’t think he is entirely similar to Murakami’s protagonists, I think he does share this egocentric quality with them. Gatsby is also a man that lives in his head, forever recreating a past with Daisy that existed more in his mind than the actual reality. His world is how he perceives it and not necessarily what it is. It’s interesting that Jay Gatsby, as a symbol, reflects the moral ambiguity that comes with the extravagance of his era. I wonder if Murakami also made his characters this way as an attempt to comment on how modern capitalization has made people perhaps more self-centered than they ought to be. 

This is not to say that Murakami’s characters are bad people. They never seem to have bad intentions, always seeming to genuinely care for those around them and trying to do the right thing. But the way they think and operate prevents them from being completely altruistic. They start from a place of wishing to love and connect with others properly, yet because they cannot shake free of their own pasts, they put chains around themselves that prevents them from fully doing so.   

 

Cora 

Undercurrents in Murakami's Writing

In the world of modern high fantasy, there is a giant named Brandon Sanderson, notorious among his fans for his use of the 'Sanderlanche'. While his volumes are normally within the thousands of pages, the majority of them are used purely to build up the world surrounding the characters and their relationships, before the last hundred or so pages floods the reader with action, resolution, and conclusion - a traditional hero's journey, with an extra hard kick at the end. When I read Sanderson's stories, I always find myself waiting for those last hundred pages, where emotions begin boiling and I find myself absolutely stuck to the book until the end.  

When I read Murakami, I find nothing like that, and yet I still found myself drawn in to the last section of Norwegian Wood. While the structures are there, they are not as well defined as a generic fantasy adventure would be, in my opinion. Major events preceding story beats in Murakami don't seem to be specifically led into - rather, they just happen, spontaneously, and we are left with characters struggling to continue through the fallout. In this way, there seems to be a hidden undercurrent carrying us through the triangular journeys of Toru. I found this apparent especially after Toru learns of Naoko's death, and his physical travels through the backroads of Japan and his psychological travels toeing the line between the land of life and death. As Toru finds himself pulled farther and farther to Naoko, to the point of speaking with her (supposedly), I found myself inexplicably swept along his footsteps, unable to take my eyes off the pages. 

I had a similar sensation with A Wild Sheep Chase, and I find it amazing how Murakami employs this undercurrent not only to advance his characters, but to advance the reader as well. When Toru returns from his fugue, when Boku rides the train back from the mountain, so too do I close the book with new thoughts, new ideas, new views on the world. 

                    Oscar